


However Improbable

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When unhappy sixth-former John Watson meets the brilliant ex-Etonian Sherlock Holmes, he finds his heart spending more time in his mouth than in his chest. Soon, he's navigating a sea of unfamiliar desires, his father's alcoholic disapproval, and the jagged edges of his new friend's extraordinary mind. Sometimes, he learns, love is soft and safe; sometimes, it's blood and teeth and fists. But then again, so is secondary school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for alcoholism, homophobia (not from major characters), mental health issues, and eventual (fully consensual) sex between teenagers.
> 
> I plan on updating once every week or so. Please forgive any accidental Americanisms--I'm doing my best with the British school system, but I can't promise total accuracy. (:

Walking into school on the first day of his final year feels to John Watson a little like surfacing after a long stint underwater. The sun is too bright; all the tiny details of his surroundings—the flaking brown paint of the railings along the front steps, the shadow cast by the hulking shape of the auditorium—are too sharp and just a bit off, their utter familiarity turning them, paradoxically, into caricatures of themselves. After a summer spent mostly inside, studying for his A-levels and making sure his dad wasn’t hiding whisky bottles in the sofa cushions, school seems oppressively garish and loud. The shrieks of the younger children are already making John’s head hurt, and the thought of chatting with his friends, far from being a welcome change, seems tiresome. He feels as though he’s about to become a cog in a vast machine, shunted through the mechanisms of classes and homework and exams until it finally spits him out—hopefully into a pre-med program at a decent university. He wishes he could just skip to the endpoint now. The rest of it all seems so exhausting, and pointless. 

When the hell did he become so cynical? he wonders as he shifts his bag higher on his shoulder and watches his sister disappear into a crowd of fellow fifth-years, looking no happier than he does to be there. Time was he’d liked school, well enough anyway; a year ago today he’d been looking forward to seeing Mike and Bill and the others, to starting sixth-form chemistry and biology classes, to snogging Sarah Sawyer (he hoped) behind the gym. Well, he had snogged her—done more than that, too—and it had been damn good, until this past summer. He _wasn’t paying enough attention to her anymore_ , she’d said—and fine, it was true enough, and his mates said more or less the same thing, though they didn’t exactly break up with him over it. But John could hardly have any of them over, could he, when his dad was a little pissed half the time, and John couldn’t leave the house too much or he’d get even more pissed. And since Harry refused to take any share of the responsibility, staying out till all hours and causing rows when she came home half-drunk herself—well, it was no wonder John had lost touch with people. 

And no wonder, maybe, that he’d got a bit cynical. 

He lingers on the threshold a little longer, drawing out the moment before he surrenders himself to the machinery of Chesterton Secondary School. It’s a mistake, though, because a second later somebody’s calling his name, far too enthusiastically for a quarter to nine in the morning. 

“John! John Watson!” 

“Hey, Mike.” John plasters a smile on his face before turning to see a stocky, bespectacled Mike Stamford hurrying toward him. 

“How are you? Blimey, it’s been ages.” 

“Yeah. Studying a lot.” 

Mike shakes his head, looking amazed. “Wish I had your stamina. Look, got to run, I’m helping Acres with fourth-year bio and I said I’d get the frogs out of freezer before school, but I’ll see you in class—and we’re getting up a game of rugby this afternoon, you should join!” 

John nods noncommittally. He’s planning to go home right away, actually, and make sure his dad’s doing all right, but Mike doesn’t need to know that. He watches his friend hurry up the front steps and sighs, figuring he’d better go in too. There’s a school-wide assembly first thing, just some stupid welcome address from the headmaster, and he’d rather not get stuck in the first few rows. 

“John!” 

It’s the second time somebody’s called out his name with too much energy this morning, and John closes his eyes. But when he opens them, he’s pleasantly surprised to see Molly Hooper standing in front of him. She’s wearing a crooked smile and a jumper dotted with tiny cats that doesn’t match her headband, and the fact that she and John don’t know each other well enough for her to expect anything from him makes John’s answering smile more genuine. 

“Hey, Molly, how was your summer?” 

“All right,” she says, as they head through the front doors, dodging tin lunch pails and stray elbows. “I spent it with my gran down in Cornwall. Bit dull, really, but don’t you think Prince George is the most perfect baby alive? I cried buckets when they announced he’d been born. Oh, and there was a bit of excitement when a body washed up on the beach—that was good, I liked that.” She looks suddenly horrified. “Oh, god, I didn’t mean it like that—I just—I only meant—” 

“It’s okay,” John assures her, feeling a laugh bubbling up for the first time that day. “I know you want to work at a morgue.” They were lab partners in chemistry last year, and Molly is nothing if not irrepressibly voluble. He knows all about her cats, her love of Kate Middleton, and, rather bizarrely, her ambition to perform autopsies for the rest of her life. 

She smiles in relief. “Yeah. Right. How was your summer? Do anything special?” 

John shakes his head and, for a moment, is tempted to tell her the truth. Molly’s complete ingenuousness invites confidences, and frankly he’s a bit tired of keeping it all to himself. But as he opens his mouth, something hard hits him in the chest, and he stumbles, catching himself on the stair rail. 

“Ah, sorry,” he apologizes, a little winded, to the young man he’s with whom he’s just collided. “Didn’t see you coming.” 

The boy looks at him, and John blinks. The stranger’s gaze is penetrating, his steel-colored eyes intense under a dramatic swoop of dark hair and a broad, pale forehead. His clothes are crisp and tailored and even though Chesterton’s not bad as far as London’s comprehensive schools go, this young man looks far too posh to be there. John doesn’t recognize him. 

“John Watson,” he says, suddenly curious, and sticks out a hand. 

The boy shakes, briefly. His long fingers are cold. “Sherlock Holmes.” 

“I’m Molly Hooper,” Molly pipes up.

Sherlock Holmes barely glances at her. He’s gazing at John, eyes narrowed. John feels something move in his chest, fragile and tentative as the tiny inward curling of tissue paper that’s just caught fire. 

“Berington or Thames?” the boy asks intently. 

John’s stomach drops. He stares at Sherlock. 

“What did you say?” he asks, sure he’s heard wrong. 

“Your father, was he laid off from Berington shipyard or Thames?” 

The delicate feeling in his chest is gone, replaced by the heavy thud of his heart. He doesn’t know whether to be offended or amazed. He hasn’t told a single person, not one, that his father lost his job in June. 

“Berington,” he answers. Because what else could he possibly say? 

Sherlock nods, one sharp jerk of his head. John opens his mouth without knowing whether or not he’s about to explode with anger, but then he catches the tiniest of movements flitting across Sherlock’s face, there and gone in a heartbeat—Sherlock just flinched. 

“How did you know that?” John asks, finding his voice. He thinks that Sherlock relaxes, ever so slightly, but then the boy’s face assumes a lofty, almost pompous expression, and John wonders if he imagined it. 

“That mark on your shoe, it’s oil and Thames water—no, don’t ask how I can tell, it’s obviously the color, it’s totally unique—but it’s old, from last spring, and there’s another like it on your other shoe, several months older than that,” Sherlock rattles off. “You’ve spent time down by the docks, probably in a shipyard. A relative works there, most likely your father. Or rather, he used to work there, but doesn’t anymore. Your cuffs are mended, inexpertly at that, and you should have got new runners for school this fall, but you didn’t—money is tight, but only recently. Given the current economic crisis and the recent layoffs of industrial workers, it follows that your father was likely amongst them. Unusual, though, isn’t it, for a working class family to live near Chesterton? Wealthy relations, perhaps? Ah, yes, probably on the mother’s side—she’s deceased, of course, she’d never have let you grab your brother’s schedule by accident like that. Quite careless of you.” 

John stares, open-mouthed, at the boy, until his body catches up with his brain. He looks down at his hand, where he’s clutching not one but two schedules, the first of which reads HARRY WATSON. 

“Oh, shit,” he swears. “She’s going to be livid.” 

Sherlock frowns. “She?” 

“Harry. Short for Harriet. I don’t…” John’s head is buzzing. He takes another long look at Sherlock Holmes, his pale face and posh clothes, and finds he’s grinning madly. Why the hell doesn’t he care that this boy just divulged a secret he’d been carefully keeping all summer long? 

He doesn’t, though. He really doesn’t. 

Sherlock looks a bit like he’s swallowed a lemon upon hearing that he’s got something wrong. He lets out an impatient noise and turns on his heel without a further word. John has a sudden swift sensation that something is slipping through his fingers, but then he sees that the boy has dropped a box on the ground. 

“Hey! You forgot your…” John’s words stutter to a halt. Inside the plastic container he’s just picked up are three small grayish balls that John cannot fail to identify. 

“…your eyeballs,” he finishes. 

Sherlock stops in his tracks, and there’s the tiniest of pauses before he turns around. Then he strides back over and plucks the container from John’s hand. 

“Thank you,” he says coolly, and disappears down the corridor. 

It feels to John as if the boy has teleported away—like there’s a rush of air into the spot he’d just been occupying, and a strange lingering imprint of his shape on the back of John’s eyelids. 

“John,” Molly says, her voice hushed and reverent. John jumps—she’d been so uncharacteristically quiet that he’d forgotten she was there. “He’s _amazing._ ” 

John blinks. Molly’s face is shining, her eyes round as saucers. “He’s brilliant. Oh my god. And beautiful. And he had _eyeballs_.” 

“That’s—” John laughs. “Ha. That’s a good thing?” 

“Maybe he was _studying_ them.” 

“Right.” John laughs again. He feels oddly light, his earlier cynicism vanished. “Of course. Bloody hell, that’s the bell. We’re going to be late, Molly, better run!” 

She shrieks and scurries to catch up as he tears down the corridor. They make it into the auditorium just in time, slinking into the back row and stifling their giggles. John hasn’t felt so good in ages. Not even Harry’s scowl when he catches her eye and holds up her schedule can dampen his spirits. 

 _Eyeballs_ , he thinks, grinning inwardly. _Christ._

 

 

 

He doesn’t think about Sherlock Holmes again until that afternoon. At first, he’s too busy cursing himself for believing he could manage A-level French. He doesn’t even _need_ A-level French. He should have dropped it last fall—he’s so bloody _stubborn_ sometimes. For once he wishes he’d admit when he’s been beaten. And then he’s got a study period, which, embarrassingly, he already needs. Then the headache of irregular subjunctive verb conjugations becomes the even greater headache of lunch with his mates, who seem to have spent so much time together over the summer holidays that their conversation sounds to him like a sort of code, all inside jokes and references to events he wasn’t there for. What’s worse is that he can’t even work up the energy to care. He doesn’t _want_ to know what “Charlie’s bangers and mash disaster” was, or if “Tarty Tara,” whomever she is, finally “dropped her drawers” for Bill. All the colors seem too bright again, the noises too loud. Mike keeps laughing with milk in his mouth, spraying little flecks all over his lunch, and it’s making John feel vaguely ill. 

He buries himself in his cheese sandwich and tries not to wonder if his dad has started in on the whiskey yet. 

Then it’s biology, something John’s good at, thank god, and he peels himself away from Mike to go sit next to Molly, whose startled but pleased smile of welcome is just about the only nice thing in the room. 

“We’re dissecting frogs next week!” she says in lieu of a hello. “I talked to Mr. Lestrade at lunch. It’s anatomy all this term, isn’t that brilliant?” 

John nods, because it is, actually, but before he can say anything, Molly’s eyes widen and she freezes, her hand gripping the tabletop. She doesn’t move a muscle. 

“Molly?” 

She doesn’t answer. John follows her gaze and feels that funny little flutter in his chest. Sherlock Holmes has just taken a seat at a table in the back, fixing his grey-eyed gaze on the empty blackboard and drumming several thin fingers on the tabletop. He doesn’t take out any textbooks or even a pen, just sits there by himself, looking deeply skeptical and attracting one or two curious glances. 

“He’s a fifth-year,” Molly whispers. “What’s he doing here?” 

John looks away from the dark-haired boy—an oddly difficult thing to do—and raises an eyebrow at Molly. “How do you know that, then?” 

She flushes scarlet. “I, er. I asked Mrs. Hudson. The secretary, you know? She’s quite lovely, I used to go and talk to her at lunch when I didn’t have anyone else to—when I, er, well, anyway, she—she says he’s a fifth-year, and his family’s quite important—government or something—and that he used to go to _Eton_.” 

John is torn between amusement and sympathy, as far as Molly is concerned, but he can’t pretend he’s not intrigued by this bit of information. He’s been feeling oppressed all day by the dull familiarity of Chesterton, and Sherlock Holmes is something _different._ And if John thinks about eyeballs in a plastic container, he doesn’t have to think about anything else. 

“Maybe he’s some sort of genius, then,” John suggests, half teasingly. Sure enough, Molly’s eyes grow glassy, and he can almost see stars clustered in her pupils. 

“Do you think?” she breathes. 

“Could be. Why else is he in upper-sixth biology?” 

“Maybe we should go and say hello,” Molly says, nervously patting down a stray wisp of hair. “He’s all by himself.” 

For some reason, John doesn’t like the idea, though he’s aware only of a stab of reluctance, not its cause. He feels vaguely that speaking again to Sherlock Holmes will be somehow disappointing—maybe he worries that the boy will prove ordinary after all, his brilliant insights that morning meretricious and his curious aloofness mere snobbery; or maybe, though John can’t begin to articulate how or why, that it is John himself who will be the disappointment. He’d rather sit here, safe and distant, with Sherlock a mere possibility, a mere notion of something better and more exciting than the rest of the world. 

It doesn’t quite occur to him to wonder what on earth he’s doing, thinking such strange thoughts. 

He and Molly don’t go over to Sherlock anyway, after all, because Mr. Lestrade walks in, bidding everyone a cheerful hello and then plunging into the most detailed and complex lecture about the pulmonary system that John has ever heard. His head is buried deep in his notebook, his hand cramping with the rapid note-taking after a long summer of rest, and it isn’t until he comes up for air halfway through that he notices Sherlock Holmes, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed, looking vaguely bored, not taking a single note. 

He’s either the most arrogant bastard in the history of Chesterton School, or he is far, far smarter than anybody else in the room. Or possibly both. 

Lestrade has noticed, too, apparently. When he finishes his lecture, he asks them all a series of tricky questions, not just review from the lecture but stuff they really have to think about. The class is struggling, their brains clearly out of practice, though all John’s studying over the holidays is paying off pretty well. Still, when Lestrade—shaking his head ruefully, as though he oughtn’t to have expected better, but did anyway—asks something about the effects of a malfunctioning _conus arteriosus_ in frogs versus humans, it goes just as much over John’s head as everybody else’s. 

“You lot,” Lestrade laments, “have had your brains turned to mush by too much telly.” He casts a suddenly sharp eye towards the table in the back corner, and John knows with a queer little jolt of nerves that he’s staring straight at Sherlock Holmes. The boy hasn’t said a word all class, doing nothing but sitting with a bored expression on his face—John’s been sneaking glances at him to see if he’s moved. 

“And what about you—Mr. Holmes, isn’t it?” Lestrade says, crossing his arms across his chest and giving Sherlock a look that John would rather not find trained on him. He likes Lestrade quite a lot, but the man doesn’t have much patience for students who don’t take his class seriously. “Do you have anything to contribute?” 

Sherlock looks as though he’s deciding whether or not it’s worth his time to answer. Everyone’s faces are turned to look at him now, some with curiosity, others smirking, a few openly hostile. Next to John, Molly is gripping the edge of her chair. John feels an odd sort of sinking feeling, as if Sherlock has already failed to—well, to what, exactly? 

But what comes out of Sherlock’s mouth is so rapid and confident and frankly beyond John’s comprehension that he’s not even sure what Sherlock says. Only that it’s brilliant. He’s pretty sure Sherlock is outlining all the major differences between frog and human hearts, largely, it sounds like, in Latin. Lestrade’s eyes grow wider and wider as he speaks, the rest of the class is exchanging glances and whispers, and Molly, John suspects, is having a minor heart attack. 

John’s heart is _soaring_. 

“Well,” Lestrade says, after Sherlock finally shuts his mouth, not quite managing to disguise the fact that he’s pleased with himself by adopting an expression of utter boredom. “All right, then. We’ll have to find you some extra work to do, mate. I’m afraid knowing all the answers doesn’t get you out of the homework—not in my class, anyway.” 

There’s a bit of laughter, and the tension that John didn’t even know had gathered dissipates. The class moves on. John tries to concentrate, but he feels like something has changed. The dullness he felt before, the boredom, has gone. It’s been replaced by a funny sort of restlessness, an itch at the back of his brain or maybe in the tips of his fingers. Like he’s waiting for something. Or like he’s missing out on something, right this minute. It’s the most peculiar sensation, and it doesn’t disappear until the bell rings and John collects his things, carefully keeping his eyes on his desk, his notebook, his bag, only turning around when he’s ready to leave. 

Sherlock is already gone. Of course he is, but John bites back a sinking feeling nonetheless. He wishes—oh, he doesn’t know, really. Just that he might escape the drudgery of school for a few moments longer, he supposes. 

But that’s too much to hope for. He bids goodbye to Molly, and hello to calculus, and by the end of the day he’s exhausted, as much by the thought of what he’ll find at home as the rigors of school. He feels a twinge of guilt at skipping out on his friends’ rugby game without so much as an apology, but not much regret. Harry, as expected, is nowhere to be seen, so he sets off for home alone, under a gray and cloud-filled sky.

 

 

 

His dad opens the door, looking fresher and brighter than he has in days. Startled, John notes that there’s not a trace of alcohol on his person; he’s steady on his feet and clear-eyed. It’s been months since four o’clock found his father entirely sober. 

“Hey, John,” his father says, a hopeful smile on his face. “How was school?” 

“All right,” John says, kicking off his runners and setting his bag on the kitchen table. He feels wary of his dad’s mood, and guilty for his wariness. “Did you, um…have a good day?” 

His dad nods eagerly, putting the kettle on the stove. “Yeah. Yeah, it was good, I rang Tommy, you know, from the gym—he knows a couple people at Hardwicke’s, the construction firm. Says there might be a foreman position opening up—says he’ll put in a good word for me.” His dad pulls a couple of mugs out of the dish drainer, mugs John washed that morning before school, and plunks a pair of teabags into them. John can’t remember the last time he made tea. “I think things are looking up, John, I really do. Got to get myself sorted out now, yeah? Now you are Harriet are back in school. Can’t be lazing about here forever.” 

John wants to believe him, he really does. He wants to believe in his dad’s good intentions, wants to have faith in the mugs of tea and his dad’s keen smile. And in fact, he feels a curl of hope rise up inside him like the steam snaking up from his tea—but he tamps it down ruthlessly, and hates himself for it. He’s heard this speech too many times before. 

“That’s great, dad,” he says, smiling as genuinely as he can manage. “Really great.” 

His dad nods, then burns his tongue on his tea. “Dammit!” he snaps, and John can’t help but flinch. His dad catches the movement, and they sit in silence for a second, the air curdling between them. 

“So, where is your sister?” his dad asks, forcing cheerfulness back into his voice. “Staying after to study already?” 

John almost snorts. If his dad really believes that, he’s more delusional than John knew. “Dunno,” he says, immediately regretting the unkind thought. “I suppose.” 

His dad frowns. “Well, I hope she comes home in time for supper. I’m making shepherd’s pie.” 

John’s stomach clenches, and he turns briefly away to hide it. Shepherd’s pie was his mum’s favorite. His dad used to make it for her when she needed a pick-me-up, back in those early years that John remembers through a golden haze, the years that seemed all low light and laughter. He knows they can’t really have been like that, knows that it’s his mind playing with his memories, making them seem brighter because of the darkness that came after. Still, when he imagines heaven, he thinks of himself at nine years old, before his mum got cancer, before his dad started drinking, back when he and Harry used to make blanket forts together in the basement. Heaven, he thinks, is probably one big blanket fort, lit with torches and full of shepherd’s pie. 

He pushes these thoughts aside and starts on his calculus homework. 

By half past six, all thoughts of heaven have vanished. The shepherd’s pie is growing cold on the counter, and his dad is pacing the kitchen floor, muttering angrily under his breath. 

“First day of school, you’d think she could make the effort for once, but no, she’s off running around god knows where with god knows who—John, are you sure your sister didn’t say when she’d be home?” 

John suppresses an irritated sigh. “No, dad,” he says for the fifth or sixth time. “I’m sure she’s fine.” 

“Oh, yeah, she’s fine now, but wait till she comes back—” 

They eat, eventually, cold shepherd’s pie, and John goes upstairs to his bedroom. He knows he should stay and keep his dad company, but he just can’t stand it anymore. As he closes his door, he hears the distinct crack and then hiss of a beer bottle opening, and lets out a long sigh. 

It’s not until eleven o’clock that Harry returns, and from his bedroom John can hear the shouting. It’s the usual argument, full of curses and recriminations, and John can’t help but tense up as he slides under his bedcovers. His dad doesn’t get physically violent unless he’s really, really drunk, but he certainly gets nasty, and Harry gives as good as she gets. The fight ends like about half his dad and sister’s fights do these days, with Harry shouting that she won’t do anything their dad says if he won’t even call her Harry, like she wants, and with their dad retaliating that he named her Harriet and he’ll fucking call her Harriet as long as she’s under his fucking roof… 

John shoves his head under the pillow. He can’t relax, not even when the yelling stops, not even when the hands of his clock tick past midnight. His mind won’t float away like it does before falling asleep; it feels crammed full, tethered to the boring, stupid, pointless, _ordinary_ world with all its stupid, pointless problems…He casts about for something, anything, to distract himself, something fresh and new and unsullied, something totally separate from everything else in his life. 

He remembers Sherlock Holmes. 

With what feels like an enormous sigh of relief, John lets his mind drift away from his body, remembering the boy’s rapid-fire deductions, his box of eyeballs, his distant, pale face and sharply pressed clothes. The thought of Sherlock’s strangeness is like a cool hand on his feverish forehead, and he drifts off to sleep with a mind full of dark curls and steel-grey eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock grow closer in fits and starts.

The next morning, something has changed. 

John doesn’t realize it at first. Not while his dad is making the usual apologies, not while Harry is trudging silently next to him on the walk to school, not when he’s having a halfway-decent conversation with Mike about a fourth-year who accidentally lobbed a dead frog into her lab partner’s face. It’s not until he turns his face away in laughter and sees a head of dark, curly hair emerging from a sleek black car that John realizes what’s different. 

He’s been thinking about Sherlock Holmes all morning long. 

No, not thinking about him. Not precisely. It’s more like Sherlock has just sort of been hovering there, at the back of his mind, since he woke up. As if thinking about him before going to sleep has made him melt into John’s consciousness. John realizes now that somewhere in his brain, as he ate his oatmeal and packed up his textbooks and scuffed his shoes along the sidewalk, was the constant hum of awareness that Sherlock Holmes exists. 

The young man himself walks past them, not five feet away, and John turns quickly back to Mike, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. He doesn’t know if Sherlock looks at him or not—doesn’t know if Sherlock is even aware of his presence, or gives it a second thought. 

John hopes, with sudden intensity, that he does. 

“You okay?” Mike asks, frowning in concern, and John hoists a smile back on his face. 

“Yeah, sorry, just—just realized how to do one of the problems in the calc homework. Been bothering me all night.” 

Mike snorts. “You have got to get a life, mate.” 

John walks with Mike into school, feeling like his skin has been turned inside out. Instead of his surroundings seeming garish and familiar, like they did yesterday, everything feels a bit strange, a bit different. He opens his locker and imagines Sherlock Holmes looking through his eyes, seeing all his books and papers for the first time. He wonders whether Sherlock could deduce things from them like he did with John’s shoes and cuffs the day before. He wonders how much Sherlock has already guessed about John’s life just from looking at him. The thought makes his stomach dip, as if John’s on a ship that has just crested a wave. 

And all through the day, John finds himself worrying at Sherlock’s presence in his mind, the way he’d worried at scabs when he was younger. It doesn’t occur to him to stop, or to question his newfound preoccupation; he’s just glad that something has replaced his worry for his dad, and that the dull depression of the day before has been overturned. It’s profoundly interesting, whatever is happening, and John can’t help but enjoy the strange extra awareness he has for his surroundings—he’s got one ear cocked for footsteps, one eye open for a flash of dark curls—now that he’s waiting for Sherlock to appear. In the lunchroom, on the stairwell. Because John finds thinking about Sherlock a damn sight nicer than thinking about himself. 

It’s not till chemistry that John does see Sherlock again, though—he should have figured the boy would show up in another upper-sixth class, given how brilliant he seems to be. Molly and Mike are both in the other section of chem, so John walks in alone, and his stomach gives another funny little dip when he sees Sherlock sitting at a table in back. He’s by himself, as usual. There’s not a chance that John can get up the courage go sit next to him, but he does walk a little closer to Sherlock than he needs to, feeling his face grow warm as he passes by. He hopes that Sherlock—well, that Sherlock notices him, that he thinks to notice him. That John is somehow more significant to Sherlock than some random classmate. As John sits down and opens his chemistry textbook, his eyes fixed firmly in front of him, he can _feel_ Sherlock in the back row, can’t shake the awareness of Sherlock’s presence. It’s like that all through class. Sherlock doesn’t say a thing, and John makes no sign that he’s at all aware of the other boy. But underneath John’s furious note taking—because chem is harder than bio by a long shot—he knows that Sherlock is there. And that secret little knowledge (for it does feel, in some inarticulate way, like a secret) makes John feel alive again, awake, and both more and less real than usual.

 

 

The sensation fades a bit over the next few days, in the sense that he doesn’t think of Sherlock all the time anymore. But it’s stronger than ever when he’s actually in Sherlock’s presence. In chem, he takes to sitting at a table across the room but parallel with Sherlock, so that every now and then he catches the boy out of the corner of his eye. Molly’s crush hasn’t lessened at all, but John—who is now spending more and more time with her—has stopped teasing her about it. He doesn’t like to talk about Sherlock to other people. And when Bill brings him up at the lunch table on Thursday, John freezes, feeling suddenly exposed. But nobody even looks his way. And why would they? There is nothing, absolutely nothing, to connect John with Sherlock. It’s all in John’s head. 

“He’s in my brother’s English class,” Bill says through a mouthful of chips. “The teacher asked for his opinion on _Romeo and Juliet_ , and apparently he called William Shakespeare ‘that blithering idiot.’” 

Everybody laughs. John doesn’t know whether to be dismayed by or in awe of stories like this—and he’s heard a few by now. Sherlock hardly blends in, after all. 

“I hear his brother’s some government bigwig,” Charlie puts in. 

“I hear they’re both vampires,” Bill replies, grinning. “Pale enough, eh?” 

“And vicious.” 

“I hear he got kicked out of Eton.” 

“For sucking blood?” 

The table laughs again, and John hears his pulse pounding in his ears.

 

 

That afternoon, John stays after school to finish up some work for chem class. Ms. Gregson’s given him the key to the lab—it’s kept locked ever since some third-years snuck in and caused a minor explosion—so he sits outside with Molly and chats about nothing for a half hour or so, till he figures he’d better go back in and get started. The corridors are nearly empty; it’s too early in the year for clubs to have started up, and sports practices, of course, are all outside. John enjoys the feeling of being alone in the school. It’s one of the perks of the upper sixth form: he’s totally at ease here, with nobody but the teachers above him, and they all know he’s a responsible guy, so he gets a lot of leeway. He slides the key in the lock of the chem lab, then frowns, listening. If he’s not mistaken, there’s somebody already inside. 

“Hey, sorry, Mrs. Gregson said I could…” 

His voice peters out as he swings the door open. Perched on a lab stool, goggles on his face and a beaker of something dark red in his hand, is Sherlock Holmes. 

“Er,” John says, very intelligently. “I…” 

“Shut the door, will you? This is heat-sensitive.” 

John does what he’s told. 

“Mrs. Gregson said I could…finish up my lab work in here.” 

“Yes, of course, you’ve got the key in your hand, don’t you?” Sherlock says impatiently, turning back to his experiment. “Do try not to state the obvious, John.” 

John’s toes curl a little at how casually Sherlock drops his name. He was starting to think Sherlock had forgotten their introduction. 

“Did Mrs. Gregson let you in?” John asks. The little Bunsen burner, the delicate vials, and the dark liquid that is beginning to look suspiciously like blood have absolutely nothing in common with the basic pH test they’re working on in class. 

“No.” 

“But then how did you…” John’s eyes widen. “Did you—did you _break in_?” 

Sherlock scoffs. “It’s hardly breaking in when the lock wouldn’t keep out a four-year-old.” 

“You picked the lock.” 

“Again, stating the obvious.” 

John realizes he’s standing in the middle of the floor, probably looking like an idiot. But he hasn’t got the faintest idea, after all his strange private fascination with the boy, how to actually hold a conversation with him. Should he sit next to Sherlock? Should he pretend he’s not there? Really, what he ought to do is tell Sherlock to leave, considering that he isn’t supposed to be here in the first place. 

“What are you doing?” he asks instead. 

“Determining the effects of introducing household chemicals into blood and then heating it up,” Sherlock responds, not taking his eyes off his task. 

John gapes. “But…why?” 

Sherlock makes an impatient noise. “Because it might be useful. Now shut up and let me think.” 

John doesn’t even have the mental space to be offended. Anyway, he can tell Sherlock doesn’t mean anything by it. John makes his way cautiously to the table next to Sherlock, noticing, as he sits, that Sherlock has several plasters stuck to his fingertips. 

_That’s his own blood he’s using_ , John realizes, the thought making him almost dizzy. 

They work in silence for a while. John’s experiment is far less interesting than Sherlock’s, though, and he keeps stopping himself from casting glances at the other boy, who is working with an intensity of focus that’s totally at odds with the bored expression he affects when in class. John can’t quite believe that he’s sitting here, alone in a room with Sherlock Holmes. 

Just as John is wrapping up (with great regret) his own experiment, Sherlock lets out a startled little exclamation, and there’s a sudden hiss. The liquid in Sherlock’s beaker—which is now a weird purple—froths up and over the edge of the glass. It runs rapidly across the table and in his haste to get out of its way, Sherlock knocks an open bottle of glass cleaner to the ground.

“Damn,” he curses, reaching for the paper towels. John rushes to help, fetching a rag from the sink, but the blue liquid is spreading over the tiles faster than they can absorb it. 

“We need a mop,” John says. “There’s a broom cupboard just down the hall, I’ll fetch one.” 

He barely has time to take note of Sherlock’s surprised expression before hurrying out of the room. He’s grinning madly again, glad of the sureness with which he can find the cupboard, glad to be helping Sherlock clean up his mess, glad of the blue liquid staining his knees and his fingers. His heart is beating rapidly from the adrenaline rush and as he turns the doorknob of the cupboard he smiles even wider. 

He gets a brief, confused impression of a tangle of limbs and two upturned faces before he realizes what he’s seeing. The broom cupboard is occupied. It’s occupied by two girls, two girls with mussed hair and swollen lips and fingers tangled together, and one of them is— 

“Mother _fucking hell_.” Harry glares up at him, so hard he can almost feel it. “Are you _bugger_ fucking _kidding_ me _._ ” 

John blinks at her, then looks at the other girl. 

“Hey, Clara,” he says faintly. 

“Hey, John,” she replies, looking equally unsteady. 

“What the _holy hell_ do you want, John Watson?” Harry demands. 

“Actually,” John says, “a mop.” 

He reaches for said object, removes it from the cupboard, then closes the door. 

And then he walks back to the chemistry lab, his hands shaking. 

He leans on the wall outside for a moment, breathing deeply. A lot of things, an awful lot of things, are starting to make sense. No _fucking wonder_ , as Harry would say, that his sister has been prickly as hell lately. No wonder she’d been staying out late all summer and refusing to say what she’d been doing. In some ways, John is relieved by this revelation. He’d been worrying she was into something bad—drugs, maybe. This is definitely better than that. 

But…oh, god, if their father finds out… 

John hasn’t thought a whole lot about homosexuality before. He does now. He discovers, with some relief, that it doesn’t bother him, not exactly. It’s strange, and a little uncomfortable, and he’d rather not have to think about it a whole lot more than this. But he’s not fundamentally grossed out by the fact that his sister’s making out with her female best friend in a broom closet, or not any more grossed out than he’d be to find out that his sister’s making out with anyone, period. But, god, wouldn’t it be easier if it had been a boy. For Harry, and for their dad. For everyone, really. 

It’s the last thing they need—something else to cause trouble at home. 

Not, of course, than John is going to tell their father. It occurs to him suddenly that maybe Harry’s barrage of cursing when he opened the door was more than just her usual temper. So he takes a deep breath and walks back down the hall. 

“Harry?” he calls tentatively, outside the cupboard door. 

“Jesus _Christ_ , John,” Harry calls back after a minute, and John wonders if he’s imagining something deeper than annoyance in her voice. 

“I’m not going to tell dad,” he answers, keeping his voice steady. 

There’s a very long silence. 

“Thanks,” Harry answers, almost too quietly for him to hear.

 

 

 

Sherlock is hovering impatiently over the spilled liquid when John returns. 

“What took you so long?” he asks, crossing his arms as John bends down to mop up the puddle. “I have other tests to conduct.” 

“I, er…” He doesn’t look Sherlock in the face. “I ran into my sister.” 

Sherlock gives an annoyed huff, as if he has no time for sisters, and John feels a curious wash of relief. He doesn’t want to explain what’s just happened, but he doesn’t want to lie about it either. Not to Sherlock. 

“Hold this,” Sherlock says, the moment John’s done wiping up the spill, and the next second—the next utterly mad, wonderful second—John is holding a beaker into which Sherlock, after pricking his finger matter-of-factly on a pair of scissors, squeezes out a sizable portion of his own blood.

 

 

 

Things change again after that. 

Or rather, they don’t change, in a way that John newly has a problem with. He expects, when he leaves the chem lab that night, after another half-hour of helping Sherlock conduct his experiments, that from now on Sherlock will at least acknowledge John’s existence—in the halls, in class, maybe even going so far as to exchange a few friendly words before and after school. But Sherlock, who seemed so very at ease with John in the lab, is more aloof than ever before. Or maybe it just feels that way now that his distance makes John unhappy. 

Before, his secret awareness of Sherlock’s existence was an enjoyable diversion; now, it’s like an itch John can’t quite scratch. 

He shows up to chem class Monday afternoon hoping that maybe things will be different in this setting. Maybe here, where John helped Sherlock with his experiments, Sherlock will acknowledge John’s presence once again. Thinking that perhaps he can subconsciously suggest this to Sherlock, he sits—with the stomach-twisting feeling that he’s somehow sticking his neck out—at the table where he and Sherlock were working on Thursday after school. He casually sets his backpack on the other stool and keeps an eye on the door. A few of his classmates walk in and he feigns an intense preoccupation with something in his bag, purposely taking up both seats. Then he catches a glimpse of black curls, and, as his heart begins to pound, he pretends (he hopes convincingly) that he’s found whatever he was looking for, and slides his backpack onto the ground, leaving the stool beside him empty. 

Sherlock walks right past him without even a glance. 

And there it is again, that bitter, biting wrench deep in his gut. The feeling that a crucial moment has passed, irrevocably, and now the rest of John’s day will be hollow and pointless. He can’t articulate why, exactly, or what he expected to be different if Sherlock sat next to him. He thinks that maybe he’s just thought about Sherlock too much, that it’s made Sherlock, or his feelings about Sherlock, curdle like old milk. Because it’s not as if it makes sense, this quiet desperation, the restlessness and discontent that seeps through him as Ms. Gregson begins to talk about acids and bases; it’s not like John even knows what he wants from Sherlock in the first place. And John’s not the most outgoing bloke around, but he’s never had a problem saying hello to somebody he doesn’t know or simply sitting down next to them. He doesn’t _like_ it, this newfound hesitance. It’s making it impossible for him to be _calm._  

And yet…there’s still something special about it. It makes him look around at his classmates, caught up in school and sports and normal stuff and think, I’ve got something _else_ going on. Whatever it is. 

So he doesn’t quite want to let it go. 

That must be why, when Gregson announces that they’re doing another lab today and this time they’re going to pair up, John feels his heart leap right into his throat. As low talk breaks out around him, and his classmates’ eyes rove around the room, he stares down at his table. Maybe if he doesn’t make eye contact, no one will ask him to be their partner. And surely no one will ask Sherlock. They could just sort of end up together as if by accident… 

“Hey, Watson, want to partner up?” 

John curses silently as he looks up to see a skinny, spotty boy he thinks is called Lanner standing hopefully in front of him. He sees out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock is still sitting alone and looking supremely unconcerned about it. Everybody else has already got a partner; John can’t possibly say no. 

“Yeah, ’course,” he says, attempting a smile. “Great.” 

And throughout the whole period, he feels restless and frustrated and a little bit angry. When Sherlock leaves early, having finished his lab so easily that even Gregson can find no fault with it, the urgent little engine that’s been running in John’s chest goes abruptly dead. 

Maybe, he thinks, he’d better stop this, whatever it is, right the hell now. 

So he smiles at Lanner and determinedly does not think of Sherlock Holmes as he grabs his stuff from his locker. Instead, he considers finding Mike and the others and joining their rugby match. His dad’s been doing a little better—he didn’t get the job at the construction firm, but at least he went for an interview—so John could probably stay out a bit, and maybe fresh air and physical exertion will excise whatever weirdness has been stewing for too long in his mind. With determined optimism, he heads outside and around the gym, where the guys usually get up a match after school. 

But halfway there he hears raised voices from a grubby little corner behind the equipment shed. John doesn’t get involved in fights, thinks they’re rather stupid, frankly, but as he makes to walk past he catches a name that freezes him in his tracks. 

“—who do you think you are, Sherlock bloody Holmes, you little bastard—” 

John’s sprinting around the corner before he even knows he’s doing it. He stops short when he sees the group gathered around the tall, pale boy, whose face has assumed an expression of extreme unconcern—so extreme that John can’t quite credit it. Underneath the layer of arrogance, he’s pretty sure that Sherlock is frightened. 

“You bloody tosser, telling _lies_ about me in front of my mates, my girl—” 

The speaker is a boy called Jeff Hope, whom John knows vaguely from when he used to play football, back in fourth form. Hope used to be a bit pathetic, really, sniveling and scrawny, but he’s since grown up into something of a bully. But John’s never seen him this aggressive. 

“And what, precisely, am I supposed to have lied about?” Sherlock asks, voice dripping with disdain. John admires him for his imperturbability, but going even more posh and arrogant than usual is the last thing that’s going to diffuse the situation. 

Sure enough, Hope snarls and gets right up in Sherlock’s face. “You know _exactly_ what you lied about, you little prat.” 

“No, I really don’t,” Sherlock replies, and John realizes with a start that Sherlock is telling the truth. 

“You said he takes pills,” pipes up a skinny boy John doesn’t recognize, with a slight Irish accent and a bit of an eye twitch. “You said he steals his father’s prescription Viagra and takes them before he sees his girlfriend because he’s afraid he won’t be able to perform—” 

“Shut it, Jim!” Hope shouts. “It’s all a fucking _lie_ —” 

“It isn’t,” Sherlock cuts in, curling his lip. “I don’t lie and I’m never wrong. Your face was flushed, your nose was stuffy—common side effects of the drug—and the state of your trousers—” 

Hope raises his fist, but before he can swing, John is in between them. 

“That’s enough,” he says, his voice dead calm. He doesn’t know how the hell he got here, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to show the others that. “Back off.” 

Hope looks confused as much as angry. John can’t blame him; he and Hope have got on well enough in the past, and John’s never been one to get involved in fights—not because he couldn’t handle it, but because he thinks it’s a waste of time. 

“This is between me and him, Watson,” Hope says. “Just stay out of it.” 

John shakes his head, very determinedly ignoring the resultant flash of shock that passes through Sherlock’s face and then disappears. “Nope. Back off.” 

“I would advise doing what he says,” Sherlock puts in. “He is clearly a superior fighter, given that very little of your bulk is muscle mass—” 

Hope growls and lunges for Sherlock. John’s fist connects with Hope’s stomach, sending the other boy reeling backwards. He can feel the air sharpen as the circle of spectators draws closer. Hope, looking shocked and furious, runs toward John, swinging his fist. John feels a smarting blow land on his cheek and coolly retaliates by kneeing Hope in the gut. Hope collapses, wheezing. 

“What—the— _hell_ , Watson,” he pants. 

John is panting, too, every nerve in his body jangling, adrenaline coursing through him. He is faintly aware that he’s just done something rather extraordinary, but he’s in no state to care. Everything seems calmly, beautifully distant. 

“Come on, Sherlock, let’s get the hell out of here,” he says, and strides away without a second glance at Hope. The circle of spectators parts for him quickly, looking cowed; only the skinny boy, Jim, stares him in the face, wide-eyed with what almost seems like delight. John doesn’t wait to see if Sherlock will follow, but after a moment he hears him scrambling to catch up. They walk in silence to the front of the school, where a few of the younger kids are still waiting for their parents to arrive, and lean against a low wall. Neither of them speaks. 

As the adrenaline begins to ebb away, along with the wonderful calm that came over John while he was fighting, he starts to wonder if he has just made a complete and utter fool of himself. He asks himself, with a growing mixture of mortification and terror, what on earth Sherlock must think of him now. Defending him like that, jumping into Sherlock’s business uninvited, must come off as dreadfully presumptuous, as if he has some claim over Sherlock, as if he thinks he’s Sherlock’s friend, as if…

“What you did back there,” Sherlock says abruptly. He isn’t looking at John; there’s a peculiar expression on his face, intent, a bit agitated, that John can’t fully read. “It was—good.” 

John feels an utterly strange spike of relief and—what else? Elation? Excitement? The old restlessness kicks back into gear, the feeling that he wants something from his interaction with Sherlock that he can’t place, but this time it’s infused with a reckless sort of hope. 

“He’s a bully,” John answers, because he has to say something, and he can’t begin to articulate why he really stood up for Sherlock like that. “Can’t stand bullies.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment. “Your face,” he says hesitantly. “It’s…” 

John probes the spot where Hope punched him, wincing at its tenderness. “Yup. Going to have a spectacular black eye.” He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s fine.” 

Sherlock begins to say something else, but then he jumps to his feet so suddenly John worries that Hope has come back. But instead, Sherlock is looking at a shiny black car that has just pulled up, his face, for once, a remarkably open book: he clearly doesn’t want to get inside. 

But his mask reappears an instant later. “I must be off,” he says, cool as ever. 

“Right,” John replies. “I…well, have a good night, then.” 

It’s a stupid thing to say, given what’s just happened, and John kicks himself for being an idiot. But Sherlock only nods his head in a preoccupied sort of way, as if there’s something else he wants to say but doesn’t know what, or how to say it. John feels the air contract between them, a weird twisting, crackling sort of sensation, and both of them turn abruptly away. 

By the time John looks back, the black car has gotten very small, with Sherlock inside it; or else John has grown very large, or is hovering high up in the air. 

In that moment, anything seems possible.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, John sits next to Sherlock in biology class. It’s easy, so shockingly easy. He and Molly walk in, John catches Sherlock’s eye, and before he knows it he’s pulling up an extra chair at Sherlock’s table. Sure, his heart is beating a little faster than normal, and sure, he thinks he sees a flicker of shock in the other boy’s eyes as he slides in next to him, but it’s as if the bruise on John’s face has given him a dose of courage he didn’t even know he needed. There’s no point hiding behind his textbooks now; the whole school knows he punched Jefferson Hope to stop him from beating up Sherlock Holmes. Even now, John can feel his classmates’ eyes on him, eyes which he determinedly ignores. He doesn’t know what people are saying and he doesn’t care. Mike and the boys seemed half impressed and half confused; Molly was torn between awe at John’s actions and professional interest in the state of his face; and his father—well, his father looked proud. “About time you got in a proper fight, I was getting worried you didn’t have it in you,” he’d said, and John had felt a brief answering swell of pride, and then a deep sense of shame at the feeling. After that, he’d decided it didn’t matter what anybody thought, because _they_ just didn’t matter. 

Except Sherlock. He can’t help but admit that. Because sitting next to Sherlock, having Sherlock meet his eye and give him half a grin, sends stomach turning dizzy circles. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what it is about this boy that makes John feel as though he needs to run a few laps whenever they interact, but he wouldn’t change it, not one bit. It’s as if Sherlock has opened up another whole world for John, a secret world that nobody else knows about. It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to him in ages. 

“I’m Molly Hooper,” Molly says from John’s other side. She leans forward so she can look at Sherlock. “Well, we’ve met before, actually, with the eyeballs—you dropped your eyeballs—well, I mean, you had some in a box, not your own eyeballs, I mean, obviously, I mean…” She takes a deep breath, her cheeks pink. “Were they for an experiment?” 

Sherlock blinks. “Yes,” he answers. 

Molly’s face lights up. “Oooooh, I told John they must be, didn’t I, John?” 

He nods. There is an unpleasant, anxious curl in his stomach, and he can’t articulate why—or why it lessens when Sherlock fails to show any interest in continuing the conversation with Molly. 

Class is better, so much better, with Sherlock sitting next to him. He hasn’t lost that peculiar awareness of Sherlock’s presence in the room, but it’s different now he knows Sherlock is aware of him, too. Not in the same way, of course, but John is relieved not to be just one more unimportant classmate to the brilliant, aloof boy. And for all that Sherlock being at his side makes him feel a bit jumpy and overexcited, it also somehow feels comfortable, too. Like Sherlock’s opened up a sort of door for John, or pulled up a chair for John in his own mind. 

After class, they pack up their things in silence as Molly chatters on about frogs’ nervous systems. John is deliberately taking his time, and for once Sherlock doesn’t vanish out the door the second Lestrade stops talking. John’s not really listening to Molly until he realizes she’s started stuttering, her cheeks pink once more. 

“So, er, if you, well, if you ever want to—I dunno, eat lunch with me, or, or me and John, I mean, er—that would be, well, nice. If you want.” 

“I don’t eat lunch,” Sherlock replies. It’s not meant to be rude, it’s not a brush-off, John’s sure of that (though Molly’s face falls anyway)—it’s a statement of fact. 

“Oh,” Molly says. “Right. Erm. I need to…I should go to class.” She hurries off, head down.

“That’s not healthy,” John says abruptly to Sherlock, once she’s disappeared, because damn it, he wants to be a doctor and he knows it’s true. He winces at how pedantic he sounds. “You must eat sometimes.” 

Sherlock lets out a huff of irritation. “Transport, John. The body is merely transport. Digesting is distracting. It muddies my brain.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” John laughs, can’t help but laugh. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” 

For a second, Sherlock looks offended, but then the corner of his mouth twitches. “But I’m a genius. It’s been proven. I’ve taken tests.” 

John snorts. “Well, you may be a genius, but you’re also an idiot.” 

Sherlock grins, a full-on grin that shows his neat white teeth. John feels positively _high._  

“I’m conducting another experiment after school,” Sherlock says. “Not chemistry this time, biology. In here. I could use an assistant.” 

John’s heart leaps. “I—yeah. Yeah, I’d—I’ll be there.” 

Sherlock nods, looking pleased. 

“Boys,” a voice calls out from across the room, making them jump. Lestrade’s looking at them, eyebrows raised. “Don’t you two have somewhere to be? Other than in my fifth-year lesson on molds and fungus.” 

John looks around. Sure enough, the room has filled with chattering fifteen-year-olds; as his eyes land on the door, Harry walks in, a rare smile on her face as she whispers something in Clara’s ear. John looks away quickly, picking up his bag and hurrying to leave. He’s late for calculus. 

“Oy, it’s Sherlock!” somebody says as they walk past him, a lanky boy with ginger hair. “Come down from Mt. Olympus to visit us lesser mortals today? Or have the upper sixths finally kicked you out for being a know-it-all? 

John remembers, as a flash of anger shoots through him, that these are Sherlock’s classmates—his fellow fifth-years. The idiots with whom Sherlock has to spend most of his time. He casts a forbidding glare at the red-haired boy, and maybe it’s John’s impressive shiner, or maybe the rumors about what happened with Hope have travelled fast, but the boy only manages to meet John’s eyes for a split second before he looks away. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” John says calmly. “Let’s go.” 

Sherlock doesn’t look upset when they part ways in the corridor, but it’s the extent of his unconcern that makes John suspect the incident has hit him harder than he’s pretending. Maybe Sherlock doesn’t much care what other people say, but nobody looks that _bored_ after someone has just insulted them. 

He wants to punch that red-headed boy in the face, too. 

What the hell has gotten into him?

 

 

Helping with Sherlock’s experiment is brilliant. Sherlock picks the lock on the biology lab’s door, which makes John anxious but also undeniably excited, and pulls a familiar box from the back of the lab’s refrigerator. 

“Same ones, yes,” he answers when John asks, taking an involuntary step back, if those are the same eyeballs was carrying on the first day of school. “Testing decomposition rates in near-freezing temperatures. Could come in handy. Actually, they’re holding up quite well.” 

John begs to differ, but it doesn’t stop him from scurrying around fetching things for Sherlock, or taking notes for him, or even holding up an eyeball on a skewer as Sherlock pours some sort of foul-smelling liquid over it. And it doesn’t stop him from agreeing to help Sherlock the next day after school, either. And by the time Friday rolls around, and John’s black eye has faded to a sickly yellow, they’re lab partners in chemistry, and John can reliably make Sherlock smile at least twice a day. 

It’s absolutely wonderful. 

John’s never had a friend like this, somebody he wanted to spend all his time with, somebody he thinks about when he’s at home, doing his schoolwork on the living room sofa so his dad can’t get to the whiskey bottle that’s hidden under the cushions. He feels a bit heart-in-mouth about the whole thing, sometimes, like Sherlock’s a time bomb or a contraband carton of cigarettes burning a hole in a locked box under his bed. He finds himself being overly casual about Sherlock with everyone he talks to, especially his dad. He doesn’t know why—maybe he’s worried that spreading Sherlock around will dilute his potency, somehow. Maybe he just wants to keep Sherlock to himself. 

So it’s not exactly a surprise that something of a crisis occurs when John and Sherlock try to find a place to work on chemistry homework together over the weekend. 

“Let’s meet at the library,” John suggests first, as he shoves a bit of sandwich at Sherlock. They’re sitting outside during the lunch hour, up against the wall of the gym, watching a bunch of third-years stumble over a football. Sherlock was telling the truth, he doesn’t eat lunch, but John’s found he can get him to take a bit of food if he’s sufficiently distracted. “It’s not far from here.” 

Sherlock’s lip curls in contempt. “I hate the library.” 

John nearly chokes on his apple, half shocked and half laughing. “What? Sherlock, you can’t hate the library. It’s full of…books. Information. You love information.” 

He really does. He’s continually analyzing people, deducing facts about their lives under his breath for John’s benefit. John knows more about the dating habits and family secrets of his classmates than the most inveterate gossip. 

“The library is full of idiots,” Sherlock proclaims, shuddering with distaste. 

“Yes, but you think everyone is an idiot,” John says in exasperation. “Surely somebody who goes to the library is less of an idiot than most.” 

“Mmm, your logic is faulty, but I wasn’t referring to patrons. I meant the librarians.” 

John shakes his head, sneaking another crust of sandwich into Sherlock’s fingers. “And why are librarians idiots?” 

“They fail to recognize superior intellect,” Sherlock replies haughtily, sticking the bread absently into his mouth. “In fact, they squash it like a bug when it appears in front of them.” 

John takes a moment to translate this. “You’ve gotten kicked out of the library,” he guesses, eyes widening. “What on earth did you _do?_ ” 

Sherlock almost looks abashed. Almost. “It is not my fault if the books they choose to stock contain many factual errors. I was doing them a favor by pointing that out.” 

John snorts. “Let me guess. You ‘pointed that out’ very loudly, didn’t you?” 

Sherlock gives a huff of annoyance that John is pretty sure is a confirmation that he’s right. He can just imagine it, Sherlock standing up in the middle of the quiet reading room, complaining to the scandalized patrons that the library’s selection of texts is subpar. After all, he’s seen Sherlock correct Lestrade in biology class more than a few times by now—Sherlock doesn’t have much of an internal censor. 

“So you’re too embarrassed to go back?” John teases. “You, embarrassed?” 

Sherlock _does_ look a little embarrassed, now. He mutters something that it takes John a moment to decipher. 

“Oh, hang on,” he says, finally catching on. “You didn’t just get kicked out of the library. You got _banned_ from the library.” 

Sherlock looks like a cat caught with a pet bird in his mouth. John gives a roar of laughter. 

“You’re mental, you know that?” he asks, grinning broadly. “Only you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock doesn’t quite know whether to be offended, it appears, but after a moment he gives John a tentative smile.

“I cannot be blamed for others’ errors,” he says loftily, and they both dissolve into a fit of giggles. Eventually, they sober up, and John feels a tremor of trepidation somewhere in the realm of his stomach. 

“Okay, so the library’s out,” he says, watching as a third-year bounces the football off his forehead. He sneaks a glance at Sherlock. “Could we maybe…” 

Sherlock cuts him off abruptly, all trace of mirth gone. “We can’t study at my place. Mycroft is returning from France tomorrow and I assure you, the house will not be a pleasant place.” 

John blinks. “Mycroft is…your brother?” 

Sherlock nods, staring moodily ahead, a bit of sandwich forgotten in his hand. 

“Right,” John says, heart beating a bit faster. Sherlock never talks about his family. John’s gathered that his parents are out of the picture somehow, and that he lives with his older brother, who—people say, with a dubious level of accuracy—is some important government person. John’s also gathered that Sherlock doesn’t enjoy being at home. Well, John can sympathize with that. 

“Er,” he says, because honestly, he hasn’t told Sherlock much about his family either. “I’d say we could go to mine, but it’s, er, it’s…” 

“You don’t want anyone to come over because your father might be drinking. And because he and your sister fight all the time, because she’s afraid he’ll find out she’s been sleeping with Clara Bennett,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly. 

John feels steamrollered. Literally as if he’s been hit in the chest. By a steamroller. 

“Ah,” he manages. His face is bright red. “Well.” 

Sherlock frowns at him. “What? It’s true.” 

John nods rapidly. “Yep. Yep. Although is Harry really _sleeping_ with—no. I don’t want to know. Jesus.” He takes a deep breath and runs his hands over his face. “Sherlock,” he says unsteadily. “Do you ever think about, you know, _not_ saying things like that?” 

John’s a little too thrown off to fully take in the way Sherlock’s face slowly shifts, like Sherlock is putting up his guards. “Things like what?” 

“Like…” John shakes his head. “Things about people’s families. Their secrets. Stuff they don’t want anything to know about. Like, I haven’t told anyone about Dad’s drinking, or about—about Harry. Or like when we first met, when you talked about my dad getting laid off. I hadn’t told anyone about that either. Or like what you said to Jefferson Hope.” 

Sherlock’s head jerks back at this last sentence, as if John has physically assaulted him. “It’s all _true_ , John,” he snaps back with surprising viciousness. “Just because you’re all too blind to see what’s right before your eyes—” 

John puts up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, Sherlock. I wasn’t—I’m not…” He takes a deep breath, head spinning. “Jefferson Hope’s a massive wanker. We know that. I punched him in the face, remember?” 

Sherlock looks slightly less certain, but not nearly as reassured as John wants him to be. 

“I—look, I know you don’t mean anything by it,” John says, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s still reeling from the knowledge that, all this time, Sherlock knew about his dad. But of course he did—he knows everything. How could John have thought he’d manage to hide it from the boy who reads stains as if they were directories, fingernails as if they were encyclopedias? He sighs, trying to let it go. “I know you’re not trying to be malicious. But—do you understand why people might be upset when you spill their darkest secrets in front of everybody else? Or—I guess I mean, not why, exactly, but—do you even know that they might react like that?” 

It’s an honest question, asked without judgment, and John thinks that’s the only reason Sherlock doesn’t storm off. The pale boy looks away, then back at John, eyes still guarded, but with something deeper, more vulnerable, behind them. 

“Not always,” Sherlock finally admits. “It’s just—those things are so obvious to me. I forget everyone else doesn’t already know them. And they’re out of my mouth before I can—” He shrugs, and crushes a bit of sandwich between his fingers. 

John nods slowly. “Don’t you…can’t you just, well, stop and think before you say things?” 

Sherlock’s mouth twitches, and not with the beginning of a smile. He swallows. 

“I’m always thinking, John. Always.” 

He says it as if it’s a secret—his own deep, dark secret. The one nobody knows. And it doesn’t sound like a secret, not when taken at face value; everybody’s always thinking, it’s what people do, and Sherlock is smarter than most, so it only stands to reason he thinks more than most. 

But John has the feeling that that’s not what he means. 

He tries to imagine his brain is a reasoning machine, like Sherlock’s. That he can’t help from seeing a thousand disparate bits of information in every stray hair, every muddy shoe, every scrape or smear or mark or tear. That he knows when somebody’s told a lie or made an error, and that it grates against his brain like nails on a chalkboard. That he can never turn his mind to ‘off.’ 

He’d get thrown out of the library too. 

“Right,” John whispers, eyes glued to Sherlock’s, and an overwhelming desire to protect him, to shield him, to throw a million punches for him, sweeps through John with a force so great it nearly knocks him over. “I…” 

Neither of them says anything. Sherlock is staring at him wide-eyed, and John is staring back. A whistle blows, shrill and piecing, from the football field, and they both turn automatically to look. The lunch period is over. 

“Right,” John says, clearing his throat, heart pounding, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. “So. We should…” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says hurriedly. They stand, gathering their things. 

“What about here?” John asks abruptly. “To study. We could just meet here.” 

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “The lock on the front door of the school is much more difficult than the one on the labs. It would take quite a bit of work, but I’m sure I could…” 

“Sherlock!” John can’t help but give a shout of laughter. “We’re not _breaking into school_. I meant here. Outside the gym. It’s supposed to be sunny, it’ll be nice.” 

“Ah.” Sherlock’s face falls, but not seriously, not with anything other than his usual petulance at not getting what he wants, and John feels a rush of relief. “I suppose you’re right.” 

“Good. Keeping out of jail, that’s my goal,” John says brightly, gathering his things. 

“Oh, we wouldn’t be caught,” Sherlock scoffs. “I’m far too clever for that.” 

John grins. At least there are some things about having an enormous brain that Sherlock clearly enjoys. “I’m sure you are.”

 

 

 

When Sherlock steps out of the sleek black car that afternoon, he knows immediately that something is wrong. 

The house—the narrow, nondescriptly ostentatious row house he shares, under protest, with his brother and, during the day, a part-time housekeeper and cook—is off somehow. 

The driver pulls away, leaving Sherlock standing on the pavement, frowning slightly, trying to determine what is tickling at the back of his brain.

It hits him very suddenly, and all at once, just like it usually does. An onslaught of information. _Welcome mat slightly askew, curtains half-open, a light on upstairs, and—_ his eyes widen— _the smell of a roast in the air._  

Snapping into furious motion, Sherlock strides forward and fumbles with his key in the lock. He wrenches open the door. 

There’s an umbrella in the stand beside the entrance. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, stomach plummeting. Mycroft wasn’t supposed to be home until tomorrow night. _Of course_ , Sherlock thinks viciously. _Of course he’d spoil it, just when I was feeling so…_

Feeling _what_ , exactly? And since when does Sherlock think of his _feelings_? 

Since John Watson punched a boy in the face, apparently. 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, you’re here.” Mrs. Turner, the cook-slash-housekeeper, sticks her head through the doorway. _You’re finally here_ , Sherlock knows she means, but she doesn’t say it. “Your brother’s back early.” 

“I know,” Sherlock replies coldly, not moving an inch. 

Mrs. Turner purses her lips. “He wanted me to tell you to dress for supper. Seven o’clock sharp.” 

Sherlock grinds his teeth and vows to be down at half-past seven at the earliest. 

“And if the roast is dry because it’s been in the oven too long, heaven help you,” Mrs. Turner adds, disappearing back into the kitchen. 

Sherlock goes upstairs, to his bedroom, and sulks. He’s still sulking when Mrs. Turner knocks sharply on his door at ten to seven, asking him if he’s ready to come down. He gauges the satisfaction it would bring him to be late for dinner versus the misery of sitting up here, waiting to face his brother. Somehow, horribly, the latter option is worse. 

He heaves himself off his bed and pulls his suit from the wardrobe. 

Mycroft is already at the table when Sherlock arrives. He looks perfectly pressed and clean, not at all as if he’s spent the last week and a half in intense international negotiations about things Sherlock can’t be bothered to deduce. 

“I see you’ve made it down to dinner on time for once,” Mycroft says by way of greeting. 

Sherlock grinds his teeth and pulls out his chair, letting its legs scrape loudly on the floor. “Stating the obvious again, Mycroft. Your brain is deteriorating in your old age.” 

Mycroft gives a weary glance at the ceiling, looking for all the world like the long-suffering father of a rebellious teenager. Sherlock thinks this rather proves his point. Mycroft is twenty-three, but he acts—and has always acted—like he was about sixty, with the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. Sherlock finds this utterly infuriating. 

Mrs. Turner brings out the roast, and they don’t say anything else until Mycroft is finished tucking in. Sherlock attempts to boycott the meal, but much to his irritation, the roast smells delicious and he caves in and eats some as Mycroft is helping himself to seconds. It does not improve his mood. 

“So,” Mycroft says finally, as he sips his glass of wine. “I hear you’ve made a friend.” 

Sherlock freezes, his breath stopping in his throat. He understands, very quickly, that this is why Mycroft is home early. He’s been monitoring Sherlock, somehow. Keeping tabs on what he does, who he sees. Spying on him. 

And now he’s going to—what? Interrogate Sherlock? Throw it in his face? Either way, this time he’s stuck his nose in too far. 

Because John is _none of Mycroft’s business._

“I don’t have friends,” he snarls, almost too angry to be shocked by the intensity of his feelings. 

Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow. “Indeed. Then I suppose John Watson must be merely…what? A convenience? A sort of pet? A pawn in the undoubtedly byzantine politics of the British comprehensive school?” 

Sherlock nearly growls. “We’re talking about me, Mycroft, not you,” he says as venomously as he can. 

Mycroft almost flinches. “Well then,” he says, voice even smoother and colder than before. “I must have misinterpreted the situation. I see now that John Watson is simply—nothing at all.” 

“He is not _nothing_!” Sherlock retorts, burning with fury. His knuckles are white, his fingers clenching the table. Mycroft looks, briefly, shocked. 

“I see,” he says, and now there’s something different in his tone, something quiet and concerned and totally new to Sherlock and Sherlock wants it _gone._  

God, he’s an idiot for showing his hand like that. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hesitates—Mycroft never hesitates, so it’s frankly terrifying now—“I hope…” His voice trails off. Sherlock meets his eyes with the fiercest glare he can muster. 

“I would advise you to be careful,” Mycroft says finally. “He may not be what you think he is.” 

Sherlock nearly laughs in relief. This, _this_ is familiar ground. “Oh, please,” he says contemptuously. “This is my life, not yours. You truly think John Watson will prove to be, what, a Russian spy out to infiltrate himself into the Holmes family to get to you? That he’s harboring terrorist sympathies and plans to bomb the embassy, with my unwitting aid? That—” 

“I only meant,” Mycroft cuts in, and damn it, his voice is still serious and quiet and _new_ , “that other people don’t…understand. What it’s like to be us.” 

Sherlock stares at Mycroft. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His heart is steady and slow, as loud and rhythmic as a drumbeat. Everything else, it seems, has gone silent. 

“We can be…too much. For…ordinary people.” 

Mycroft looks twenty-three now, and not a second older: young and uncertain and struggling to make the words fall from his lips. 

And for all that Sherlock spends an enormous amount of time disassociating himself from his brother, Mycroft isn’t wrong. They’re very much alike. The insides of their heads are very much alike. 

And very, very different from everyone else’s. 

Sherlock places his napkin back on the table with trembling fingers.

 

 

 

After dinner, after Mycroft has retired to the living room with a glass of Scotch and an unusually pensive expression, Sherlock locks himself in his bedroom and calls John to cancel their study date.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hot chocolate?” 

John looks up. He’s sitting on the low wall outside school, staring at the empty space in the road where Sherlock disappeared into a fancy black car—what, five minutes ago? Fifteen? 

“My gran gave me a Starbucks gift card for my birthday last year, and I still haven’t used it all up,” Molly Hooper says, a little anxiously. “I thought maybe….you needed a hot chocolate.” 

“Thanks,” John says, waking up a bit. He smiles at her and takes the drink. “Want to sit?” 

Molly smiles back and hops up on the wall next to him, kicking her feet against the bricks. “It’s getting chilly.” 

John nods. He hasn’t noticed till now, though. 

“Are you…have you been…are you okay?” Molly asks hesitantly. 

John forces a smile onto his face, cursing himself for being so obvious. “Yeah, ’course. Just—lots of work to do. Putting it off.” 

“Right.” Molly is quiet for a moment. “Is…is he okay?” 

John looks at her, heart in his mouth. _What does she know?_ he wonders, then thinks confusedly, _There’s nothing_ to _know_. 

Only that Sherlock has stopped being his friend. 

Oh, they still talk. They still sit next to each other in class. But the easy camaraderie—and whatever else was between them, that spark of closeness John has almost convinced himself he imagined—is gone. There have been no more after-school experiments in the bio lab, no more lunches by the gym, and it’s like Sherlock has put up an invisible wall around himself. 

It hurts John far, far more than it should. 

“I mean, is Sherlock okay,” Molly clarifies, misunderstanding his silence as lack of comprehension. “It’s just that he’s been…quiet. This past week.” 

John sighs and digs his thumbs into the hollows between eyes and eyebrows. “Yeah, he has.” 

Molly’s forehead puckers with concern. “I’m worried about him,” she confesses, then goes pink. “Well, not just me, I—I told Mrs. Hudson I’d keep an eye on him.” 

John blinks. “The secretary?” 

Molly nods. “She met Sherlock when he registered here. And his brother. She told me she thought he might have a hard time fitting in. She liked him.” 

John can’t help it—he laughs. “She _liked_ him?” 

Because Sherlock may be many things—brilliant, fascinating, elegant, striking—but likeable isn’t one of them. 

Molly laughs too. They grin at each other through their giggles and for the first time in a week John feels a small amount of weight lift from his shoulders. 

“We are a bit mad, aren’t we?” Molly says as their laughter peters out. She’s half joking, but John knows exactly what she means. 

“Maybe we are.” 

“Do you know what’s wrong?” she asks quietly, sober now. 

John pauses, then shakes his head. “Sometimes I think _I_ did something wrong,” he admits. “But then…I don’t know. It seems bigger than that. It’s like he’s gone very far away. And he just…keeps going.” 

John can’t quite express how he felt when Sherlock called to cancel their study plans. _Crushed_ is the word that comes to mind: as if something fragile and delicate, that had just begun to stretch a thin web of roots into the earth, was trampled underfoot. He’s been trying to coax that green and growing thing back to life all week long, but Sherlock is proving to be stubbornly barren soil. 

John thought it was his fault—that he’d been found wanting—until Sherlock refused to answer a direct question from Lestrade in bio. He’d shaken his head as if to dislodge something inside it and shrugged a bony shoulder, his face pale and blank. Lestrade had looked nearly as gobsmacked as John felt. 

Something is happening to Sherlock. 

“I wish I could help him,” Molly says softly, staring at her shoes. John feels a rush of sympathy for her—if it’s been hard for him, who still gets to sit next to Sherlock in class every day, to talk to him while they do chem labs together, how much more difficult must it be for Molly, who can barely get two words out of the brilliant boy on a good day? 

Not that she and John feel exactly the same way about Sherlock, of course. But still. 

“Are _you_ okay?” he asks. 

She looks startled, like she’s not used to being asked that question. John feels a stab of guilt that he hasn’t thought to wonder about her wellbeing before. 

“Oh, of course,” Molly says. “I’m fine, yeah. Always.” 

She smiles at John. He doesn’t believe it. 

“There’s a football match on this weekend,” he says abruptly. “Here, I mean. We’re playing Riverside. Do you want to go with me?” 

She looks surprised and a little awkward for a second. John frowns, then catches on. 

“Oh! Oh, not as…not as a date. Just. Hanging out.” 

She grins, relieved. “Yeah! Yeah, that’d be lovely. Are…are you sure you want to?” 

John smiles. “Of course. It’ll be good to have some fun, yeah?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it will.” 

And hopefully it will stop John from worrying about Sherlock, at least for a few hours. 

 

 

 

It _is_ fun, and John does manage to put Sherlock from his mind for the duration. Mostly. There is a nasty moment when he remembers that they were supposed to study together in that same location the weekend before, but then he turns his attention determinedly back to cheering on Chesterton. Molly’s excellent company, funny and bright once you get past her tendency to stumble over sentences and make awkward jokes about cats and corpses. Her cheeks are flushed pink as she shouts her support for the team (she doesn’t know a thing about football, but she’s got boundless enthusiasm so it hardly matters), and for a fleeting moment John wants to push a stray strand of her brown hair behind her ear. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thinks, if this were actually a date? 

He glimpses Sarah Sawyer in the crowd, huddled under the arm of her new boyfriend, and feels his stomach sink. He can’t be in a relationship right now. Not with his dad back to sneaking whiskey at night and stumbling around half-dressed all day. He hasn’t got time, and he can’t take anybody home with him. It wouldn’t work out. 

Besides, he doesn’t like Molly that way, not really. And she likes Sherlock. 

He isn’t going to think about Sherlock. 

But he can’t help himself, once they’re back at school on Monday. Sherlock barely says hello when they pass in the corridor in the morning; he barely looks like he even knows where he is. John resolves that when he sees Sherlock in class that afternoon, he’s going to ask if Sherlock is okay. If something is wrong. If there’s anything he can do. 

His heart is pounding when he sits down at the table, but Sherlock never appears. 

Sherlock skipping class is unprecedented. 

After school, John decides to hunt him down. 

The black car that usually picks Sherlock up is waiting in the street out front, but Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. John strides rapidly through the corridors, checking the chem room—Gregson is in there with a student—and the bio lab, where he finds no one but Molly, who has been coming in occasionally to do extra credit work for Lestrade. Sherlock isn’t near the lockers or in any of the practice rooms. John tries outside, next. Sherlock isn’t near the gym. He’s not out front and he’s not out back. 

John isn’t sure whether to be exasperated or worried. 

He’s close to giving up when he sees that the black car is still out front, parked now, a thin plume of cigarette smoke snaking out the driver’s window. Sherlock is still here, somewhere. Unless he ran off, but… 

John has a thought. It isn’t a good thought. 

He hurries back towards the equipment shed, making for the grubby little corner where he’d found Jeff Hope bullying Sherlock what seems like ages ago. He rounds the corner, and sure enough, Sherlock is there. 

He’s sitting on the patchy grass, leaning against the brick wall, knees pulled up nearly to his chest. He’s staring at the ground as if it he can bore a hole into it with his steel-gray eyes. 

“Sherlock?” John asks tentatively. Sherlock doesn’t move, not a blink, not a twitch, no sign he’s heard him. John tries again, and Sherlock still says nothing. With mounting concern, John goes over and sits down next to him, leaning against the cold wall. 

“Sherlock,” he says softly. 

This time, Sherlock looks at John, his eyes so blank and distant that John feels a stab of terror. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

It’s a stupid question. Sherlock is obviously not okay. But the boy doesn’t give the snort of disdain he typically reserves for stupid questions. He merely goes back to staring at the ground. 

“You skipped class today,” John tries. Sherlock says nothing. “You’ve never skipped class before.” 

“Wrong,” Sherlock says dully. The absence of his usual triumph in proving himself correct makes John’s stomach curl in fear. “Conclusion based on insufficient data.” 

“Okay,” John responds, as neutrally as possible. “So you have…skipped class before.” A possibility occurs to him, revelatory, frightening. He wonders if he should risk asking for its confirmation. Normally he wouldn’t dare, but right now, all bets appear to be off. He tries to keep his voice casual. “Did that a lot at Eton, did you?” 

Sherlock looks startled for a fraction of a second, and John applauds himself grimly for breaking the other boy’s terrifying blankness. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, going flat again. “Apparently it became ‘so unacceptable that they could no longer overlook it, no matter what my family connections or exam results.’” 

John exhales. So that’s it: the secret of Sherlock’s expulsion. He played hooky one too many times. 

It doesn’t sit well with John, not well at all. 

“Why would you skip class, Sherlock?” he asks. “You’re brilliant at class. And you love to learn, I know you do, chem and bio at least.” 

“I already knew everything that mattered, and didn’t care about anything else.” Sherlock’s flatness is tempered ever so slightly by a note of contempt. “Eton was boring and hateful. When I was expelled I wanted to stop going to school altogether. Mycroft wanted me to try Harrow. We compromised, and I ended up here. In the nature of compromises, it satisfied neither party.” 

John swallows. Sherlock would never be giving him this information normally, and as much as he’s been dying to know everything about the boy, he finds his openness disturbing. "Your brother's your official guardian, then?” he asks, trying to find the most innocuous question to ask. 

Sherlock’s lip curls. “Yes.” 

His tone is momentarily so dark that John knows he mustn’t pursue the subject. He files the information away for later—Mycroft Holmes, _not_ an acceptable topic of conversation—and casts about for something else to say, feeling very much at sea. 

“Chesterton’s that bad, then?” he asks, licking his lips nervously, trying to sound normal. “Ha. I mean, the cafeteria food is dreadful, but really…” 

Sherlock shakes his head, a sharp, abortive movement, and John falls silent. 

“You all have no idea,” Sherlock says, and his voice is even duller and deader than before, “you, with your tiny little brains. You have no idea how _little_ it all means.” 

John stares at him, his heart in his throat. 

“You sit there, in your classes, in the corridors, in the bathrooms, and you _don’t think_. You don’t see, you don’t hear, you don’t observe. But I do. I take in every single bit of information that enters my proximity, whether I want to or not, and it is all so _small_.” 

John breathes in, watching Sherlock’s eyes grow dark and wide. 

“When my brain is being properly stimulated, when there are problems to solve and experiments to conduct, everything is fine, I can tune the rest out. But when there’s nothing new, nothing but ordinary, boring, useless information, I can’t help but focus on it. Every single moment my head is full of a hundred separate trivialities: _Lestrade had two eggs for breakfast, this table used to be in a kindergarten, Violet Hunter’s bicycle broke down this morning, there are three grammatical errors on this page of the textbook, Sebastian Wilkes is cheating on his girlfriend, Sebastian Wilkes’ father is cheating on his wife, the dried gum under my chair has been here for thirteen months and two weeks—_ ” 

“Sherlock.” John stops him, can’t help himself from stopping him, because Sherlock looks almost manic now, rattling off this list of useless facts as he stares into something dark and distant that John can’t see. 

“I am _always thinking_ ,” Sherlock whispers, fingers clenching white. 

John swallows, feeling the ghost of Sherlock’s despair, the pressure of a hundred thoughts a second whizzing through his brain, impossible to slow or stop. John would go insane. Perhaps what he took for blankness, for deadness, is really just Sherlock’s response to constant overstimulation: glazed eyes, dulled reflexes, as Sherlock’s mind tries to process all that information at once. 

“You broke our study plans,” John says suddenly. “Am I—were they…” 

Sherlock looks at him, uncomprehending, maybe uncaring. 

“Were they boring,” John finishes lamely, embarrassed that he didn’t stop himself from expressing the fear the moment it occurred to him. “Am I…a…triviality?” 

John hates himself for saying it aloud. He sounds utterly pathetic. And Sherlock says nothing, merely staring at John. John cannot tell, not for the life of him, if Sherlock is thinking about his response, or if John is just so small to him that Sherlock can’t even manage to answer. 

“Sherlock,” he begins, feeling suddenly dizzy with nerves, “I…” He crouches down next to Sherlock, heart beating wildly. “I just…I want to understand. I want—” He swallows. “I want to help.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen—yes, there, John’s gotten through to him—but the next moment his face looks _awful_ , derisive and angry and he’s actually stumbling backwards, standing up against the wall, and John is stumbling backwards, too, shocked. 

“I’m not your _project_ ,” Sherlock snarls. “I don’t need your _pity._ ” 

John feels a rush of horror, hears the blood roaring in his ears. “I didn’t mean—Sherlock, no, I only meant—” 

“You meant that I’m broken, and you want to fix me,” he replies cuttingly, and then—horribly, and John hears the words like they’re coming from some kind of distant nightmare world—he says, “Trust the son of an alcoholic to think he has the power to save someone from himself. Go home and babysit your father, John, and leave me alone.” 

John feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach. Something bitter rises in the back of his throat, thick and nauseating as bile, and he stares at the other boy for a long, silent moment. 

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” he says quietly, and walks away. 

 

 

 

He almost shouts at his father that evening for having a beer with dinner. Harry is sulky and silent, picking at her peas and potatoes, and John wants to shake her. Instead he goes up to his room and locks his door. He breathes in deeply and kicks the wall. Just once. It hurts. 

He feels a little better. 

He can’t get Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s words, out of his brain. _Trust the son of an alcoholic to think he has the power to save someone from himself_ , Sherlock said, and John would be more than upset by that even if he weren’t worried that Sherlock was right. 

 _What if_ , a treacherous little voice in his head says, _what if that’s all this is. This thing, this—this interest in Sherlock. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s just you being drawn to him because you think he’s broken. Maybe it’s your goddamn savior complex kicking in._

Or what if Sherlock has just been some kind of massive distraction for John? After all, he hardly knew a thing about Sherlock when this—this fascination started. What if John never really liked the other boy at all, but was just drawn in by the _idea_ of him, of a difficult, unapproachable, secretly fragile genius? 

Wouldn’t Sherlock be justified in saying what he did? 

John lies down on his bed, fully clothed, shoes still on. He stares blankly at his bedside table, at the empty glasses and miscellaneous pens and the secondhand copy of _Grey’s Anatomy_. For some reason, the thought that John’s interest in Sherlock is based on a lie is the most upsetting idea that John has encountered all day, worse even than what Sherlock said about his father. If John’s friendship with Sherlock isn’t real—if what they have, or had, that _thing_ between them that John swears he felt, those times they worked together on Sherlock’s experiments after school—then something utterly devastating has happened. Something good has gone out of the world, and now everything is brown, and very, very small. 

The sun goes down as John is fretting, and John, despite his consternation, falls asleep.

 

 

 

He wakes up just past midnight. It’s strange, but when he opens his eyes, he feels nothing but calm. 

He’s not angry with Sherlock. Either not at all, or not right at this particular moment, he’s not sure which. In the darkness of his room—rendered weird and alien by the fact that he is still wearing his clothes and his trainers—he feels only a deep sadness, coupled with a restlessness, a desire to escape his bedroom, his house, his family, his hemmed-in existence. He feels damaged, too, and liable to damage others, like a cracked window, broken into jagged bits of glass. Just this once, he can admit that, yes, his life is crap, and that it hurts. 

He swings his feet off the bed. It’s a bad idea to walk around London alone at night, even in a decent neighborhood like this one, but John needs air. He pads quietly downstairs. He notes, distantly, that his dad appears to have made it up to his bedroom tonight. 

He slips his key into his pocket and steps outside. 

The night is sharp. John takes a deep breath, feeling the cold air burn his throat. Yes. This is what he needs. He starts walking, past the darkened houses, everything still in the yellow glow of the streetlamps. A car passes by, its headlights briefly blinding, then turns the corner, fallen leaves settling in its wake. John walks down one block, then another, with no particular purpose in his head, just a clear cold feeling of melancholy, so in tune with his chill, silent surroundings that John feels strangely peaceful. There’s nothing specific going on in his head. He’s aware only of the darkness and the crunch of leaves beneath his feet and the depth of the peculiar calm within him. 

He can’t say he’s surprised when he finds himself walking onto Chesterton’s campus, as if some homing signal has led him there. He also isn’t startled to see the glow of a cigarette and the shadowy outline of a long thin figure sitting atop the low wall at the front of the building. It’s Sherlock, of course. 

It’s almost as if John knew he would be here. 

He walks over the boy, whose pale face is half in shadow, half yellowed by a nearby streetlamp. Sherlock looks at him silently, taking a long pull on his cigarette and then exhaling, his mouth a small O as he releases a thin plume of smoke into the air. 

“Mind if I sit?” John asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. John slides onto the cold ledge. For a long moment, they don’t say anything. They don’t need to talk; this is enough. John’s fingers are growing numb, and the sky is vast, and he can see a couple of stars even through the lights of the city. He imagines Sherlock’s cigarette is another star, a point of light that is burning itself down, pulled in bit by tiny bit by the gravity of Sherlock’s lips. 

“Can I have a drag?” John asks. 

Sherlock looks taken aback, but he offers John the cigarette. John places it between his lips, savouring the unfamiliar feel of it, the paper, the heat. He sucks in a shallow breath and lets it out, watching the smoke curl from his mouth, and hands it back to Sherlock. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” Sherlock says abruptly. “You have to take deeper breaths. Like this.” 

He demonstrates, his chest rising and falling. John watches, imagining Sherlock’s lungs, what they look like expanding and contracting. 

“Just because I don’t smoke doesn’t mean I don’t know how,” he answers mildly. 

Sherlock looks perplexed, but says nothing. They lapse again into silence. A couple of cars pass, loud in the stillness. John thinks again of the stars, all of the ones he can’t see, invisible under the blanket of light pollution. He remembers that Sherlock once professed proudly not to know anything about the solar system. It’s a shame, John thinks now: the universe is so vast and mysterious; he’d imagine Sherlock would like that. 

He holds out his hand again, and Sherlock passes him the cigarette. It’s shorter now, and John can feel the heat of the tip closer to his fingers. He takes another shallow drag and lets it out. 

“You don’t smoke,” Sherlock says, sounding frustratingly bemused. 

“No,” John agrees. 

“Then why are you smoking?” 

John thinks, _Because it’s as close as I will ever get to kissing you_. 

And somehow, the thought—which has arrived crystal clear and unbidden in his head—doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t surprise him. He surveys it calmly; it seems as removed from him as the bricks beneath him and the gaps in the chain-link fence across the street. _Ah_ , he thinks, _now I understand._

He shrugs, giving Sherlock half a smile. 

Sherlock doesn’t smile back, but after a moment he offers John another drag on the now nearly spent cigarette. 

“You can’t help me,” he says abruptly, tossing the butt on the ground and grinding it elegantly under his shoe. He doesn’t look at John. “No one can. It simply has to pass by itself. They do, eventually, these black moods.” 

John knows it’s as near as Sherlock can get to an apology. He feels a glow of warmth in his chest, like the hiss of a Bunsen burner starting up. “I understand,” he answers, choosing his words carefully. “But you did say certain things make it better. Puzzles, experiments.” 

Sherlock nods, not meeting John’s eyes. “But you can’t simply conjure those things into being.” 

“Sure you can,” John says. “Those experiments of yours, for one. You’ve stopped working in the labs after school. How come?” 

Sherlock’s face contracts in displeasure. “Gregson realized someone was breaking in. She changed the locks. They aren’t too difficult for me to pick,” he adds quickly. “But if I get expelled from Chesterton, Mycroft says he’ll send me to boarding school in France.” 

John thinks he doesn’t like Mycroft Holmes very much. 

“And what about the bio lab?” he persists. 

Sherlock hesitates. “Molly has been working there.” 

John frowns, puzzled. “Yeah, I know. She’s been doing extra credit. Lestrade gave her permission. But she’d be happy to share the room, I know she would.” 

“She would be distracting.” Sherlock’s voice is petulant. 

John hides a smile. “You could ask her to be quiet. I know she talks a lot, but I promise you, she’d stop if you asked her to. And she might surprise you. She wants to work in a morgue, you know, seems like something you’d be interested in.” 

Maybe in the morning John will curse himself for saying anything that might make Sherlock take an interest in Molly, now that he recognizes his real feelings for the boy. But tonight, under the hidden stars, nothing seems like a threat besides the possibility of losing Sherlock to his own unhappiness. 

“Why don’t you ask Lestrade?” John presses. “I’m sure he’d let you use the lab after school. You wouldn’t even have to break in.” 

Still Sherlock hesitates. “He’d say no,” he answers quietly, after a long moment. 

“He wouldn’t,” John promises, wanting to kick whomever last denied Sherlock such a request. He puts a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, unthinkingly, without realizing he’s doing it, and both of them freeze. 

John has never taken that kind of liberty before. He’s half afraid Sherlock will wrench himself out of John’s grasp. But instead, they both simply look at each other in silence, until, finally, Sherlock speaks, his voice gravelly. 

“Would you like another cigarette?” he asks. 

“I’ll share one,” John answers. 

As Sherlock cups his hand and flicks on his lighter, John looks once more at the empty sky. A solitary plane is flying overhead, just a tiny yellow light blinking on and off, a couple hundred people suspended miraculously in space between Point A and Point B. Sherlock and John sit in silence down below, passing their own tiny glowing light back and forth. Through the smoky flavor of the cigarette, John can taste the ghost of Sherlock’s lips against his own. Only their fingers touch as they brush against each other to make the exchange, but John feels as though he and Sherlock are mouth-to-mouth, breathing the air from each other’s lungs, warm and alive against the chill of the night. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longish wait! Working in a toy store at the holidays takes quite a bit of time and energy. (:
> 
> I am changing the title of this story because I have been informed by a thoughtful reader that bleachers are not a usual feature of schools in the U.K. Whoops! ACD canon reference instead.

The next morning, John awakens to find that he has a bomb ticking away in his chest. 

Or that’s what it feels like, anyway. Surely his heartbeat can’t be that powerful, that intense, that fast. And surely the sensation that he’s volatile, that he’s _live_ , that a single touch could set off an explosion, shrapnel flying, noise booming, all heads turning to stare directly at John and the perilous device lodged deep in his chest—surely that can’t all be in John’s imagination. He’s sure, too, that the traces of Sherlock’s cigarette, stale and bitter on his lips the morning after, are just on the edge of visibility, like special ink that needs only a blacklight to show up brilliantly, eye-catchingly neon. He’s got to be sending out _waves_ , tremors, invisible ripples of thought and desire that penetrate the walls, the floor, the ceiling, so that not only his hungover dad downstairs and his cranky sister next door but even the older couple who live in the third-floor flat above them must be feeling their skin prickle, the hairs stand up on the backs of their necks, a developing sixth sense that’s going to send them noses-first in John’s direction. 

_Sherlock_. 

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._  

That’s what they’re going to hear when they get close enough, instead of a heartbeat, instead of the breath entering and exiting John’s lungs. They will _know_. 

Everything looks different when John switches on the light, resting his elbows on his knees and his hands in his head, trying to calm himself. His knees look different. His floor looks different. The angles and corners of his room, the old rugby posters on his wall, the heaps of schoolbooks on the floor, all look different, too, and unfamiliar—just barely, though, as if somebody’s tinted the world just a fraction, or as if the rules of geometry have been altered almost imperceptibly. Actually, the room looks like it did when John came back from a month-long holiday with his family the summer before his mom died: as if it’s grown smaller in his absence. Only this time John hasn’t been away. 

He goes into the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face. His face in the mirror looks unfamiliar as well—shell-shocked, a bit, and sort of pleading. 

_What is happening to me?_ John asks himself, staring into his own wide eyes. 

He really, really can’t answer that question. Because he knows there’s no retracting the revelation he had last night—the one that came upon him so calmly, under the cold night sky. That John Watson seems a world away now. He’s anything but fatalistic this morning, anything but calm; the only thing that remains the same is his desire to—well. To kiss Sherlock Holmes. 

_But how can I want that, and—and why?_ he asks himself desperately, even as the thought of Sherlock’s cigarette against his lips sends a fiery jolt deep into his gut. _What does that_ mean _?_

He’s never, in his conscious memory, felt attracted to a boy before. He’s liked girls since he was ten and kissed Angela Potter on the lips in the park and she’d run away shrieking and laughing, her golden hair tangled in the wind. He’s kissed quite a few girls since then, once they stopped running away. He thinks of Sarah Sawyer, the soft press of her lips, the curves she’d finally let him touch after months of dating, the feel of her hand slipping tentatively between his legs for the first time. He shifts, swallowing; yes, the memory is still as potent and powerful as ever. 

He isn’t gay. 

And he’s not an idiot, he knows about bisexuality, but this doesn’t _feel_ like that. It doesn’t feel as though he likes women and men. It feels as though he likes women and Sherlock.

He slumps down onto the closed toilet seat, running his hands over his face. Is that even possible? he wonders. Or is this just some—some trick of his brain? Sherlock is extraordinary, brilliant, and unquestionably beautiful even by the most objective standards. Could it be that John’s yearning for something different, something new, something that isn’t his dull friends and his difficult family has somehow transformed into physical desire? After all, this attraction began as a purely mental one; John was fascinated first by Sherlock’s brain, his curious history, his aloofness and, underneath, his vulnerability. He wants to take Sherlock in his arms and squeeze the pain out of him. He wants to kiss Sherlock until Sherlock forgets—until they both forget—that anything, _anyone_ else exists. 

“Oi!” There’s a sharp knock at the bathroom door. “What are you doing in there, drowning yourself in the toilet?” 

John jerks out of his revelry. “For goodness’ sake, Harry,” he answers, trying to sound as ordinary as he can. “Give me a minute.” 

She kicks the door. “Hurry up. Some of us want to get the hell out of this house as soon as possible.” 

John squeezes his eyes shut. Harry. _Christ_. Somehow he hadn’t made the connection till now: Harry, in a closet, kissing Clara Bennett; John, sitting on the wall, wanting to kiss Sherlock. His mind kicks into overdrive, thoughts blossoming like violent pools of color in his brain. He thinks of the word _gay_ and he thinks of closets, literal and figurative, and he thinks of Harry whispering secretly into Clara’s ear, and secrets, and why secrets remain secrets—the faces of his friends, shocked and laughing, his father, the inevitable anger and derision if he ever found out—talk about explosions… 

“John!” Harry kicks the door again. 

“Fine! Jesus Christ!” John shouts, opening the bathroom door so fast he almost slams it in into Harry’s nose. He strides into his room, ignoring his sister’s startled expression, and grabs his backpack, then plunges down the stairs like he’s taking a dive into freezing water. His dad is sitting in the darkened kitchen, rubbing away a headache, but John doesn’t even pause to be angry about it. He snags his coat and hurries out into the cold gray morning. 

The stupid thing is, he thinks, as he walks toward school, feet suddenly dragging, is that there’s not a chance in hell Sherlock is going to want to kiss him anyway.

 

 

 

And yet, God, there’s _something_ between them that morning; even in his confused and overwrought state John can tell he isn’t imagining it. Sherlock joins him before class, outside his locker, and something _sparks_ when their eyes meet. They both look away, quickly, and John’s heart is pounding. 

_Shit_ , he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he can hide his feelings if Sherlock’s gaze does _that_ to him. 

“We should talk to Lestrade today,” John says to the inside of his locker. 

Sherlock makes an indecipherable noise. He seems better today, a little more present than he has been for the past week or so, but John isn’t fooling himself that Sherlock’s black mood is gone for good. The sooner Sherlock has interesting things to do, the better. 

“About using the bio lab after school,” John clarifies. He swallows, then pulls his head out of his locker to look at Sherlock. But the pale boy is staring at the floor now. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, his tone clipped. “That isn’t necessary.” 

John has an overwhelming impulse to crush his friend in a tight embrace. Instead, he levels his gaze and puts his hands on his hips. 

“I’ll talk to him myself,” John says, trying to ignore the nervousness he feels at making the offer. Is he being too transparent? “Don’t worry about it.” 

Sherlock looks up at John, startled. He starts to say something, then stops. After a long moment, he jerks his head once in acquiescence. 

John swallows down his smile, trying not to notice how warm the air around them has become.

 

 

 

“Mr. Lestrade?” John pokes his head around the open door of Lestrade’s office. It’s the end of lunch hour. “May I come in?” 

“John, hi,” Lestrade says, smiling. “Of course.” 

John steps inside. Lestrade’s office is small and dim, cluttered in a cozy way with books and discarded remnants from the bio lab—an old microscope, a plastic model of the inner ear, a skull (possibly real) atop a bookshelf. “I have a question for you,” John begins. 

“Okay, shoot,” Lestrade says amiably. 

John shouldn’t be nervous. He and Lestrade get on quite well. If he were asking to use the bio lab for himself, he wouldn’t bat an eye. But asking on Sherlock’s behalf is another story. It draws so clear a connection between himself and the other boy. Do friends do things like this for each other? Is it normal? John can’t tell. 

“You know how Molly has been using the bio lab after school sometimes for extra credit?” he begins. 

Lestrade snorts. “Did she tell you that? Molly doesn’t need any extra credit. She’s doing independent research, just because she wants to.” 

John nods, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. Molly has got to give herself more credit, he thinks. 

“Well, anyway,” he continues, “er, I was wondering if you might—if you might let other students use the lab as well.” 

Lestrade’s eyes narrow. “That would depend on the student. I wouldn’t give anyone the opportunity to be in the lab unsupervised if I didn’t think they were responsible enough.” 

John wonders, with a flutter in his stomach, if _responsible_ is a term that can be applied to Sherlock. “Right. Of course. The thing is, I was wondering—well, I was wondering if Sherlock and I might use it sometimes. He, er, has ideas for some experiments he wants to conduct.” 

Lestrade scratches his head. “Sherlock, huh? I don’t know, John. I’m not sure I trust him not to blow up the lab—and given that it’s a biology lab, not chemistry, that’s saying something.” 

John nods but feels disappointment rushing through him. “It’s just—he—well, he gets bored,” he says, anxious not to betray Sherlock’s trust, but feeling as though he’s got to try harder before giving up. “And I think—he likes science, more than he likes most things, and…” 

He trails off. Lestrade is giving him a long, hard look. John feels as though he can see right through John’s skin, to where his heart is racing a mile a minute. 

“Okay,” Lestrade says finally. “I’ll make you a deal. Sherlock can use the lab, but only when you’re there too.” 

John feels a rush of relief, tinged with nearly overpowering excitement. “Thank you. Yes. I can do that.” 

“And check with Molly about when she’s working there—she’s got first dibs. You’d better go talk with Mrs. Hudson, too, so she can schedule the room for you. And John—” Lestrade hesitates, his gaze assessing. “Take Sherlock with you when you see her. You shouldn’t have to do all the work for him.” 

“Oh, I’m not—he didn’t—” John takes a deep breath. “I don’t mind.” 

“Even so,” Lestrade says. “It’ll be good for him.” 

John nods. “Okay.” He pauses. “Er—I just—well. Thanks,” he finishes lamely. 

Lestrade smiles. “Of course. You’re a good student, John, and a good kid. And for God’s sake don’t tell him I said this, but I think Sherlock is too, deep down. Impossible though he may be.”

John feels a rush of gratitude for Lestrade. He hovers for a moment, struck with the mad desire to confess everything to his teacher—what a relief it would be, to talk to someone older and wiser about the tumult in his chest and in his mind—but he can’t quite bring himself to speak. 

“Thanks,” he says again, and Lestrade smiles back. 

“You’re welcome.”

 

 

 

It’s exactly as difficult as John expects, getting Sherlock to talk to Mrs. Hudson with him. Molly’s no problem—she agrees enthusiastically to Sherlock’s occasional presence in the lab while she’s working, a fact which John tries not to worry jealously about. But Sherlock is less than pleased at the idea of asking for something politely from a school administrator. It’s a mark of how much he must want the use of the lab that he agrees at all. 

Still, John practically has to drag him to Mrs. Hudson’s office after class. She’s stationed outside the headmaster’s office, of course, and John can hear low voices coming from behind the closed door to the side of Mrs. Hudson’s desk. The administrative assistant herself, though, is unoccupied, and her face lights up when she sees them come in. 

“Hello, boys! So good to see you again, Sherlock, I hope you’re settling in well! And John Watson, I haven’t seen you in here since the football incident back in your fifth year, shame on you for keeping away so long—not that I’m not glad you haven’t been breaking any windows recently, of course.” 

John feels his cheeks turn pink. Mrs. Hudson has quite a long memory. “It was an accident,” he replies automatically. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” she says with a knowing smile. John can sense Sherlock smirking beside him. “Do sit down, both of you. Would you like a biscuit?” 

She offers them a tin. They both demur politely—John is startled, actually, at how well Sherlock is behaving. Usually he finds small talk unbearable. 

“So what can I do for you boys?” Mrs. Hudson asks. 

John glances at Sherlock. “We, er, got permission from Mr. Lestrade to use the bio lab after school sometimes. He said to talk to you so you can reserve the room for us.” 

Mrs. Hudson’s face lights up. “Oh, lovely! I’m sure Molly will be glad of the company. All of you, so smart.” She types rapidly on her computer. “How shall we do this? Molly just pops in every week to tell me when she wants to stay after. But I can give you specific days if you like.” 

John looks questioningly at Sherlock. 

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Sherlock says. “That is—if that works for you, John.” 

John swallows. There’s no reason whatsoever that the question should have made him pulse quicken. “Yeah. Good.” 

“All right, then,” Mrs. Hudson says, making some definitive clicks with her mouse. “All set. And if you need to change it, then just come right in. You’re welcome anytime, just to chat.” 

John smiles at her, genuinely grateful. “Thank you.” 

“That goes for you, too, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says, eyes suddenly adamant as they rise to go. “Anytime.” 

Sherlock stares at her, looking as though he can’t figure out what she wants from him. John has a sudden fear that Sherlock is going to say something that isn’t very nice at all. But all Sherlock does is nod. 

“Good,” Mrs. Hudson says. “That’s settled, then.” 

John swears Sherlock almost smiles as they leave the office. “So,” he says, faltering as his eyes meet Sherlock’s and it happens again, that _spark_ , sizzling through the air between them, shriveling the words to dust in his mouth. They stare at each other for a moment, and then the sound of somebody whistling behind them breaks the spell. 

They turn around. Emerging from the headmaster’s office is a scrawny dark-haired boy, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that ought to sound merry but somehow doesn’t. It takes John a moment to recognize him—it’s Jim, Jim Moriarty, one of the kids who was tormenting Sherlock that day behind the gym. His hackles rise. 

Moriarty stops short and gives them a long, smirking glace. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he says in an Irish lilt. 

Neither John nor Sherlock replies, but the tension is palpable. Sherlock has clearly recognized Moriarty, too.

“You’re not waiting for the headmaster, are you?” Moriarty asks. “Thing is, I wouldn’t talk to him now, if I were you. He’s just received some very unfortunate information. He’s not in the best of moods.” Moriarty grins, and for some reason his smile makes John want to punch him in the face, too. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” he says roughly. “Let’s go.” 

But Sherlock is staring at Moriarty in a way John doesn’t like at all—intense, utterly focused. Fascinated. “What did you tell him?” Sherlock demands. 

“Oh, got you curious now, have I?” Moriarty asks. “Mmm. You’ll figure it out, I’m sure. Clever Sherlock Holmes.” He examines his fingernails. “Let’s just say a certain star athlete is about to be in lot of trouble. His own fault, of course.” Moriarty raises his skinny shoulders. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

And with that, he saunters off, whistling again. 

Sherlock stares after him. “He’s done something,” he says, his voice intense and low. “Something isn’t right.” 

“Well, he’s a little shit,” John answers, with more bite than he intends. Sherlock looks at him, startled. “Not worth our time, Sherlock. Let’s—” 

But once again, they’re interrupted. Sherlock’s eyes widen as they focus somewhere behind John, and suddenly he’s grasping John’s wrist and pulling them both down the corridor, nearly at a run. 

“Sherlock, what—” John pants, looking wildly over his shoulder. All he can see is Mrs. Dimmock, the fifth-year English teacher, her head bent over a pile of papers. 

“She musn’t see me,” Sherlock hisses, half-dragging John past rows of metal lockers. “I was supposed to turn in a paper for her this afternoon, and I haven’t got it done.” 

John snorts. “Sherlock! You can’t just avoid her forever, she—” 

“Shhhh!” Sherlock says, and then, as Mrs. Dimmock begins to look their way, he grabs John’s hand and starts to _run._

John lets out an undignified yelp and then he’s laughing and streaking down the corridor with Sherlock, dodging past a couple startled first-years, barreling around a corner and down the stairs. His heart is racing, his hand is hot in Sherlock’s and he feels as if he might simply leap into flight at any moment. 

“Why the hell,” he pants as they race past empty classrooms, “are you even—” he gasps for breath “—taking English in the first place? You shouldn’t have to, not in your—hah—in your fifth year.” 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock spits out, still racing along. “Wants to keep me occupied.” 

“Git.” 

“Yes.” They burst through a side door to the outside and skid to a halt, falling back against the brick wall of the school. Their hands fly apart but they’re practically pressed together, panting with effort, giggles rising in their throats. 

“You,” John puffs out, “are utterly cracked.” 

Sherlock lets out a laugh. “You followed me.” 

“You grabbed my hand!” 

“You didn’t let go.” 

They double over, laughing and wheezing, and John feels giddy, head spinning, pulse racing; he can’t stop grinning at Sherlock, can’t stop his heart from feeling like it’s about to burst out of his chest. Nobody’s around and he’s _so close_ to Sherlock, and Sherlock is looking at him with the same giddy expression, and they are nose to nose all of a sudden and John can _feel_ Sherlock’s heart galloping, and they are standing on the edge of a cliff, a precipice, about to hurtle headlong into empty space with dizzying speed— 

And then they are kissing. 

Sherlock grabs John’s upper arms and John fists his hands in Sherlock’s shirt and pulls and they come together with astonishing force, lips hard and desperate against each other; it’s more like a fight than a kiss, teeth clicking together and hands gripping hard enough to bruise, and when Sherlock’s tongue breaks into John’s mouth it’s like an invasion, an attack, but God is it a welcome one. John shoves Sherlock back against the wall and Sherlock’s eyes widen. He goes still and John breaks away, terrified and elated. 

They stare at each other, still panting. John feels so keyed-up he might just jump right out of his skin. _Get it together_ , some distant part of his brain commands, but John can’t do anything but gasp for air and stare at Sherlock, who looks somewhere between having just survived an atom bomb and having just become one. 

“John,” he says, voice cracking, and then they’re kissing again, just as urgently, just as messily, all teeth and tongue and terror. John’s afraid of breaking off again, even though he can’t breathe, afraid that if he and Sherlock move away from the wall it will collapse on top of them. They might both collapse, in a heap of bones and sinew and muscle, if they ever stop kissing. 

So they don’t, not for a long time. Not until both of them slowly become aware that they’re outside, in public, and even though no one’s around this side of the school, between the main building and the auditorium, they could appear at any moment. Neither of them voices this concern, but John can see his own realization reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. 

They pull away slowly, suddenly looking anywhere but at each other. John feels as if his whole body has been turned inside out. He waits for his breathing to steady, but it doesn’t. 

It seems that he and Sherlock find their courage at exactly the same time. As John looks up at Sherlock, Sherlock is just looking up at him. They meet each other’s eyes, and John wishes desperately that he could read Sherlock’s mind. 

He doesn’t ask what Sherlock is thinking. He doesn’t say anything at all. He can’t find the words—or maybe it’s that any words, any at all, would break whatever fragile thing is now between them. Or maybe words would solidify it—and John isn’t ready for that, either. 

Instead, with a feeling almost, but not quite, like dread, he places his hand on Sherlock’s chest. His friend’s heart is beating wildly, strong and forceful as if it’s trying to leap right through his ribs. John shuts his eyes for a moment, relief flooding through him. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s doing, either. Thank God. 

He lifts Sherlock’s pale hand very gently and, as Sherlock gives him a startled look, he places it on his own chest, over his own erratic, leaping, terrified heart. 

Sherlock exhales, long and slow, and together they stand there, motionless, finding momentary peace at the center of a hurricane.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock’s fingers are very close to John’s. 

They’re sitting in biology class, listening to Lestrade’s lecture. Or rather, pretending to; John, at least, hasn’t heard a word. His whole body is focused on Sherlock’s pinky, half an inch away from his own thumb. Sherlock hasn’t looked at him the whole class period, which is how John knows he’s aware of their proximity, too. He could swear there’s an actual electric charge in the air between them—it’s miraculous that no one else seems to have noticed. Molly, for instance, sits on his other side, completely oblivious, taking detailed notes and dotting her i’s with little hearts. John’s brain takes a brief respite from thinking about how the perfect curve of Sherlock’s fingernail would feel against his cheek to be grateful Molly can’t tell that anything is different—John is afraid it will break her heart if she ever finds out. 

Sherlock shifts slightly, bringing their skin almost in contact, and John feels a shudder run through him. The clock ticks down with maddening deliberateness. John breathes deeply, his heart racing faster as the end of the period approaches. 

The bell rings. Lestrade dismisses them. John mumbles something to Molly about seeing her later and he scrambles to his feet, hurrying out of the room. 

He’s got French and Sherlock’s got physics, but John is damned if he’s waiting till the end of the day, and he knows from the way Sherlock’s foot slid against his just before Lestrade let them go that his friend feels the same. There’s a single bathroom at one end of this floor, which is meant for teachers, but John’s not above breaking the occasional rule. He ducks inside. He catches his own gaze in the mirror—his eyes are huge, dark and hungry. He swallows hard. 

Twenty seconds later, Sherlock whirls into the room like a tornado, latching the door behind him in one graceful movement and knocking John back against the tile wall, his mouth unerringly finding its target. They’re gasping within the first few seconds; they still—after nearly a week of snatched kisses in bathrooms and corners and empty corridors—are afraid of breaking contact, even just to catch their breath. John runs his fingers up the back of Sherlock’s neck and through his dark hair, pulling him closer till their bodies collide, warm and so alive. Sherlock kisses with such intensity, such single-minded focus, that John finds it a harrowing experience, but for all that, the distance between always them seems too great. Clearly Sherlock thinks so too—John makes a strangled noise as Sherlock’s tongue slides deeper into his throat, and he digs his fingernails into the back of Sherlock’s neck to keep himself from whimpering. 

Outside, in the corridors, a bell rings, signaling that both of them are late to class. They have to push themselves away from each other to break the kiss. Sherlock wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist, and John nearly goes weak-kneed at the sight. 

“Right,” he says, catching his breath. “Er. I’ll…see you after school?” 

Sherlock nods. They stare at each other—lips swollen, pupils dilated—and finally, Sherlock turns to go, with what looks like physical pain. 

John buries his head in his hands, breathing deeply. His mind is awhirl with confusion and desire. His whole body is protesting against Sherlock’s sudden absence. 

He can’t imagine how he’s going to make it through French.

 

 

 

John can’t think about anything but Sherlock. Mike and the others won’t shut up about football, and Molly (bless her heart) keeps going on about her new cat, and the whole school is abuzz with the news that Carl Powers, the star of Chesterton’s swim team, has been arrested for shoplifting and kicked off the team and suspended for a month, but John’s entire existence is focused around the brilliant boy he’s currently snogging in secret every chance he gets. He’s never been so caught up in somebody else. Part of it is just blind lust—he can literally feel his lips aching for Sherlock’s when they’re around other people—compounded by the fact that they’ve never managed to be alone long enough to kiss for more than a couple minutes at a time, and they’ve constantly got their ears pricked for approaching footsteps. The secrecy, the hurry, the bursts of adrenaline somehow make the whole thing a thousand times more intense. John also can’t quit thinking of Sherlock because it’s all just bloody _terrifying_ : it’s so incredibly wrong-footing to find himself ducking into bathrooms and closets to sneak passionate kisses with a _boy_ , so frightening, frankly, to feel that he’s suddenly become a stranger to himself. And he can’t look at Harry, or his dad, without worrying that somehow they’ll _know_ —and he’s not ready for that, not by a long shot. He knows nothing, nothing at all, about where this is going, about his own feelings, about what any of this means for him. He only knows that when Sherlock is near, his heart beats so hard and fast that it feels like it’s going to jump out of his chest. 

It’s also difficult because Sherlock is impossible to read. 

John knows Sherlock wants to kiss him. He’s got ample evidence for this, as over and over again Sherlock pins him against the wall, hands on his shoulders and tongue delving into John’s mouth like it’s searching for a secret hidden deep within. And he knows Sherlock likes the feel of John’s lips on his neck and his ear and his collarbone because of the little half-noises he makes every time, tiny gasps and catches of breath that send a jolt of desire straight through John’s body. But he knows very little else. They don’t talk about what they’re doing—they haven’t said a word about it, not once, not before or since that first kiss. Sherlock is clearly just as keen as John to avoid being seen, but whether that’s because he’s afraid of what others will say or ashamed of kissing a boy or conscious of John’s wishes or just plain secretive by nature, John hasn’t the slightest idea. And John doesn’t know what Sherlock wants from him, other than kisses. Maybe nothing. 

Maybe everything. 

That possibility scares John more than anything else. 

Frankly, he’s so confused and keyed-up and full of adrenaline all the time that he’s possibly a little less freaked out than he should be when he’s sort-of-almost kidnapped about a week and a half after he and Sherlock start, well, doing whatever it is they’re doing. He’s taking a walk after dinner—his dad and his sister have been snapping at each other all evening, and he’d desperately needed to get out of the house—when a black car pulls up alongside him, headlights gleaming in the half-light. John’s stomach dips woozily when he recognizes it as the car Sherlock takes home from school every day. For a wild moment he has visions of kissing Sherlock senseless in the backseat, but then the driver’s window rolls down and he realizes no one else is inside. 

“John Watson?” the driver asks, face quite neutral. 

John nods, confused. 

“If you would get in, please.” 

John blinks. He wonders if it’s possible that Sherlock has sent for him. Maybe he’ll be taken to meet him somewhere? 

“What exactly…?” 

“Sherlock’s brother wants to see you.” 

John goes cold. After a moment he realizes he’s standing there with his mouth open. The driver looks unlikely to budge unless John complies, so, at a loss for what else to do, John climbs in. 

They drive for perhaps ten minutes. John’s well-established dislike of Mycroft Holmes in theory battles furiously with overwhelming curiosity. He can’t deny that he’s wondered what Sherlock’s brother is like; sometimes he thinks if he knew a bit more about Sherlock’s life outside school, he’d find the boy less inscrutable. When the car pulls into a private parking garage, John’s pulse is jumping anxiously but he’s making an effort to appear calm. The driver ushers him into an elevator—it’s entirely nondescript—and then along a similarly neutral corridor, and into a stunningly unremarkable room. 

Behind a plain brown desk, underneath an indifferent watercolor of Kensington Gardens hanging on an off-white wall, sits a man who cannot quite be described as unremarkable. He’s in his early twenties, John guesses, but he’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit and carries himself with the assurance of a much older man. He dismisses the driver with a slight raise of his gingery eyebrow and beckons for John to sit. John does so, sinking into a leather seat with trepidation and mounting irritation. The latter only grows as the man—whose sole resemblance to Sherlock lies deep in his intelligent eyes—continues to say nothing, merely surveying John with a penetrating gaze. 

“So,” John says, breaking the silence more belligerently than he’d quite intended. “You’re Mycroft Holmes, I’m guessing?” 

The man purses his lips, as if already unsatisfied with the conversation. “I am. And you are John Watson.” 

It’s not a question, so John doesn’t grace it with an answer. 

“What exactly am I doing here?” he says instead, after another long pause. 

Mycroft Holmes sighs. “I wish to discuss your…relations…with my brother.” 

John swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Fear courses through his veins. “What do you mean, my relations with him?” he asks, keeping his voice as steady as he can. 

Mycroft’s eyes flutter briefly shut. “Mr. Watson. Surely I do not have to spell it out for you. You are a reasonably intelligent young man. My brother would not be wasting his time with you otherwise. Besides, your A-levels, current grades, and aspirations to be a physician indicate as much.” 

Mycroft smiles slightly as John stares at him, shocked. Surely there’s no way Sherlock’s brother can know what his grades are. Surely not. 

“No?” Mycroft says with another sigh. “Very well, then. By ‘relations’ I mean, of course, your… _physical_ relationship with Sherlock.” 

John breathes in through his nose, very slowly, fighting panic. Were he and Sherlock seen? Could Mycroft have seen them? Could someone else have, too? 

“And what makes you think we have a physical relationship?” he asks, meeting Mycroft’s eyes with great effort. 

Mycroft’s smile is utterly humorless. “It is possible that Sherlock split his own lip three times in as many days. It seems unlikely, however, that he bit his own earlobe.” 

John flushes deeply. His embarrassment, however, proves a boon: his anger finally starts kicking in again. 

“What do you want, exactly?” he retorts. 

Mycroft hesitates. “I want to know what your intentions are towards my brother.” 

And that stops John short. Because John hasn’t the faintest idea what his intentions are towards Sherlock, any more than he knows what Sherlock’s intentions are toward him. Other than getting his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth as fast as he can the next time they’re alone, of course. Other than gripping Sherlock’s shoulders as tightly as possible, running his lips just above the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, daring to slide his fingers a little lower down Sherlock’s body, and ignoring the beginnings of both of their erections with all the willpower he can muster. Because that is just too frightening for words. 

And absolutely _none_ of Mycroft Holmes’ business. 

“I think that’s between him and I,” John says coolly. 

“Between him and me,” Mycroft corrects immediately. There’s a pause. 

“Yes,” John answers pleasantly. “That.” He smiles, and it’s just as insincere as Mycroft’s earlier expression. “Basically, what I’m saying is, it’s none of your business.” 

Mycroft’s face goes blank with shock. Grimly satisfied (despite his still-racing heart) John gets up and heads for the door. 

“Mr. Watson.” 

Mycroft’s voice is soft and dangerous and John cannot help but turn around. 

“If you hurt my brother, you will be very sorry.” 

John swallows, hard, and then—with a great deal of effort—turns away and leaves the room.

 

 

 

“What’s happened?” 

The question is immediate and, though not entirely unanticipated, John had hoped it might take Sherlock a little longer than that to read his mind today. Not much chance of that, though. 

“Nothing,” he attempts, walking over to lean against the bricks of the auditorium, where he and Sherlock are half-concealed from the student body, fifteen minutes before the start of school. 

“Don’t lie, it’s pointless,” Sherlock says, voice intent. “What happened?” 

John rubs a hand over his face. “How do you know something’s happened?” 

“You are making approximately seventy-five percent less eye contact and standing a full two feet farther away from me than usual, and you are worrying at the bottom of your jumper with you right hand.”

John clasps his hands behind his back. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again. Sherlock is staring at him, looking intensely focused and, John thinks, just a little bit afraid. 

“I met your brother,” he admits. 

Sherlock goes still. 

“In what circumstances could you possibly _meet_ Mycroft?” 

“Actually,” John says, feeling warier than ever as he surveys Sherlock’s utterly motionless body, “he sort of kidnapped me.” 

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide, and then suddenly he’s grabbing John by the shoulders and practically shaking him. 

“What did he do, John? What did he do to you?” 

John puts up a hand, bemused and a little frightened. “Hey, hey, Sherlock. Nothing. He didn’t _do_ anything, really. He just wanted to…er. Ask about our—this...our thing.” 

It’s a poor choice of words, and John can’t tell if it’s him or Sherlock’s absent brother that the boy turns abruptly away from, pacing several feet off and staring, his fingers hovering over his mouth, at something John can’t see. 

“Sherlock,” John says, a little alarmed. Sherlock says nothing. “I told him to sod off, you know.” 

Sherlock whirls around. “You did _what_?” 

John swallows. Is it possible that Sherlock is angry about that? “Well, not in those exact words. But I did say it was none of his business.” 

Sherlock stares at John for a long moment and then, to John’s utter surprise, begins to laugh. It’s long and deep, nearly a cackle, and John’s eyes grow wide in confusion. 

“Sherlock, what—I don’t—did I do something stupid, or—what did I do?” 

“Only,” Sherlock gasps out, “what a dozen foreign diplomats and half the Cabinet can’t manage.” 

John’s jaw goes slack. “Sherlock. No. You’re joking. Right? Sherlock, you’re joking, aren’t you?” 

Sherlock just shakes his head, still doubled over with laughter. “No,” he wheezes. “I’m really not.” He chuckles, rubbing his hands together with glee. “You told Mycroft Holmes to _mind his own business!_ Oh, this is brilliant. This is _Christmas._ John Watson, you are _magnificent_.” 

And he takes hold of John’s face and kisses him squarely on the mouth. 

They both freeze. Sherlock’s laughter dies abruptly. John’s eyes dart from side to side—no one saw—and then land again on Sherlock’s face. 

It’s by far the closest thing to a declaration of feeling either of them has come to making. 

“Class,” Sherlock says abruptly. “Mustn’t be late.” 

“I…right,” John says, scrambling for his bag. Sherlock strides out from behind the auditorium, into the oblivious crowds of students, and John follows, ears still ringing with Sherlock’s words.

 

 

 

“Let’s go somewhere private,” John suggests the next day, after they’re nearly caught mid-snog by a gaggle of third-formers who want to use the space behind the auditorium to braid each other’s hair. He says it out of sheer exasperation, though he’s been thinking about it more and more. He’s been too nervous to bring it up to Sherlock until now—he doesn’t know if his friend wants more than this, to be honest. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen and for a moment John’s worried that he’s trying to figure out how to refuse. But then Sherlock nods, just once, and breathes out a nearly inaudible _yes_. The sound goes straight to John’s gut. 

“So,” he says, fumbling to cover up his blush, “where, do you think?” 

They fall silent. 

“Mycroft will be at home for the foreseeable future,” Sherlock says grimly. “He works long hours but they’re unusual ones. There’s no predicting when he’ll turn up.” 

John doesn’t much fancy the idea of doing anything where Mycroft Holmes hangs about, anyway. “My dad—erm—” 

“Yes.” 

John bites his lip. The problem is, there are a couple of truly private places he can think of—a shed in an abandoned lot where some of their classmates go to drink and smoke weed, Bill Murray’s car, if he lets John borrow it—but he can’t quite bring himself to suggest them. Part of him is frightened by the thought of being totally alone with Sherlock—frightened of what might happen between them. He doesn’t know how far he’s ready to go. Really and truly just _doesn’t know_. 

He wonders if Sherlock is worried about the same thing. Surely his enormous brain would be able to come up with half a dozen solutions to the problem of privacy if he truly wanted to. 

“There’s an empty lot a few blocks from here,” John says finally, throwing caution to the winds. “There’s a shed there. We could, er…” 

Sherlock blinks, looking away, then nods. “Okay.” 

“Yeah?” John asks, his heart rocketing into his throat. 

“Yeah.” 

John licks his lips nervously. “Okay. Good. Well, er—Saturday, maybe? In the morning? Shouldn’t be anyone else there that early.” 

“Fine.” 

“Eleven?” 

“Fine.” 

“Okay.” 

Neither of them can quite meet each other’s eyes after that.

 

 

 

By Saturday, John has worked himself into quite a state. He spends half an hour picking out what to wear, as if he and Sherlock are going on a date, for heaven’s sake, instead of to a grubby lot overrun with weeds and cigarette butts. Finally he growls with frustration and grabs some clothes at random. His skin feels super-sensitive as he slides the shirt over his head; he’s been thinking about—in between determinedly _not_ thinking about—how Sherlock’s hands would feel sliding over his bare skin. He can’t tell if the cold that washes over the crown of his head at the thought is fear or arousal. What would it mean if it all went wrong—if they tried, well, more than kissing, and it failed spectacularly? Then again, what would it mean if it didn’t? 

John shoves such thoughts to the back of his brain and hurries out the door. 

The lot is empty and grey, the sky overcast and the air thick with the chill of oncoming winter. It’s truly a miserable day, bitter and damp, and John finds it a bit mad that he’s venturing out. Then again, it’s all a bit mad, really. 

He only has to wait a minute, leaning against the peeling wood, before Sherlock appears, wrapped in a long coat and scarf that make John go weak at the knees. They look at each other awkwardly for a moment, and then John swings open the door of the shed. 

“Come on, then,” he says, with far more bravado than he feels. 

Sherlock steps inside. Grey light filters in through the cracks in the roof, casting pools of shadow around the tall boy. John steps forward, heart pounding. Expectation is thick between them; he can feel the warmth rising as he and Sherlock lean in, heads tilting, lips opening in anticipation. The blood is racing in John’s ears and he thinks recklessly, _I am going to snog you senseless, Sherlock Holmes._

A loud bang from outside and then a snort of laughter sends them reeling away from each other. They freeze, listening to the footsteps—it sounds like a couple of people, and they’re coming closer. John hopes desperately that they won’t come into the shed, but soon enough, he hears the scrape of fingers against wood. His mind is utterly blank. He can’t think of any excuse, other than the truth, as to why he’s in here, alone, with Sherlock Holmes. 

As the door swings open Sherlock drops suddenly to his knees, turning away from John, scrabbling in the dirt. For a split second, John wonders what on earth he’s up to, but then his mind hurtles off in another direction when he sees who’s just come in. 

It’s Harry. 

“I’ve got the soil sample, John, this should be enough for our experiment—oh, hello, I— _oh._ ” Sherlock’s false surprise turns real as he sees John’s sister, standing next to Clara Bennett, her mouth wide open. 

“Soil, erm. Samples,” John stutters. “For—chem class.” 

Harry stares at him. 

“We’re—done here—you can—” John gestures helplessly. 

“Come on, John, haven’t got all day,” Sherlock says, a hint of strain evident beneath his careless tone, and steers him out of the shed. John glances back at Harry, who’s glancing back at him, and neither of them says another word—but they both know how well she can sense when he’s lying. 

He and Sherlock walk several blocks away before stopping to lean against the metal railing outside a petrol station. Neither of them says anything for a long moment. 

“Well—” John says, just as Sherlock says, “So—” 

They fall silent. 

“Maybe we should…” Sherlock looks away, his gaze landing on the cracks in the sidewalk. “Maybe this isn’t…” 

“Wait,” John says, as panic spikes through him. “No. Wait. I—I have an idea.” 

He does, too. It’s just arrived fully formed in his brain, and it’s simple and frightening and just might be the perfect solution. 

“I know where we can go.” 

Sherlock looks at him warily, the question in his eyes. 

“Come on. Tube’s this way.” 

“But where—” 

“You’ll see.”

Sherlock’s frown deepens as they board the train, studying the map, looking, John knows, for clues as to where they’re going. He wonders how long it’ll take Sherlock to figure it out, and if he’ll object when he does. 

They get off at Blackfriars, stepping out into a blast of cold air off the Thames. Sherlock looks around, puzzled, and then his eyes widen with understanding. 

“John—” 

They both look at the long steel footbridge, arcing out over the grey river. As John expected, the damp and the cold have made the bridge much emptier than usual, handfuls of pedestrians trudging along with their coats up against the wind. It’s not exactly deserted, but from either side of the river it’s impossible to make out more than vague figures as they walk across. John bites the inside of his cheek, waiting for Sherlock’s response. 

He jerks his head yes. John’s stomach lurches, his heart picking up as they walk in silence toward the bridge. The air is colder and harsher above the water, but somehow John feels uncomfortably warm. Somewhere near the middle of the bridge, they stop, looking out over the edge, their bodies close together as if seeking shelter from the wind. 

They can’t see anyone passing behind them, and John supposes that everyone is too concerned with getting out of the cold to pay them much mind anyhow. He darts a glance at Sherlock, uncertain how to begin. What do they do, now that the urgency and the secrecy and the adrenaline rush aren’t pulling them towards each other on a collision course? How exactly, John wonders, is this supposed to work? 

Hesitantly, Sherlock raises his eyes to John’s. They are clear and as grey as the sky, and full of all the questions that are crowding in John’s mind. 

John places his hand on the railing and Sherlock slowly covers it with his own. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, nose red, black curls tousled by the wind. He leans in slowly, and John bends to meet him. 

It’s the softest kiss John’s ever known, breaths mingling gently, cold lips giving way to warmth as their mouths open ever so slightly, sweet and slow as honey. John’s stomach dips and he feels heat travel all the way into his toes, curling them up against the insides of his shoes. He slides his hand behind Sherlock’s neck, deepening the kiss—but not too deep, not too fast, just soft lips brushing against each other, unhurried, deliberate, light as air. And then it does intensify, tongues sliding into each other’s mouths, fingers gripping hair, eyes falling shut and then opening again and shortening breaths and low, tiny moans. 

John’s nearly forgotten that they’re in public, nearly forgotten the people walking behind them. But not quite. As long as he and Sherlock remain angled towards the river, their backs to the rest of the world, everything is fine; but turning around seems impossible right now. So they kiss long and slow atop the Millennium Bridge, in the middle of London and yet separate from it, public but anonymous, shutting their eyes to the crowds and hiding in plain sight. And it’s lovely, and breathtaking, and nearly, very nearly, enough.


	7. Chapter 7

When Carl Powers walks back into school three weeks later, something happens. 

Sherlock hasn’t given a thought to the disgraced athlete, as far as John knows, for the whole time he’s been suspended. John hasn’t given much thought to Powers either, despite the fact that his arrest for shoplifting and subsequent removal from the swim team has been the chief gossip around Chesterton since it happened. John’s been too caught up in the all-consuming heart-in-mouth existence that is being secretly involved with Sherlock Holmes to pay much attention to the rest of the world.

But when Sherlock catches sight of the swimmer’s hunched-over shoulders and averted gaze as he makes his way through silent crowds of curious students, he stiffens, his hand moving involuntarily to clasp John by the elbow. 

“What—Sherlock?” John enquires, his stomach dipping queasily at the uncommonly familiar touch in public. “What is it?” 

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock murmurs. And then, in a whisper that sounds oddly Irish, “ _Don’t shoot the messenger._ ” 

“Sorry?" 

Sherlock whirls to face John. “Carl Powers didn’t steal those shoes.” 

John blinks. “Oh?” 

Sherlock shakes his head furiously, dark curls whipping from side to side. “Look at the shoes he’s wearing now. He can’t possibly have stolen the others.” 

John looks at Powers’ feet, then back at Sherlock, bemused. “I don’t…” 

Sherlock huffs impatiently. “Wide feet, he’s got wide feet, the other shoes wouldn’t have fit right.” 

“But how do you know what kind of shoes—” 

“Because I _know things_ , John, obviously.” Sherlock’s lips grow thin. “Which means he was set up.” 

John trusts Sherlock, he does. He knows the younger boy’s brain is far quicker and brighter than his. But he wonders if just this once, Sherlock’s desire for complex problems is getting the better of him. He licks his lips, trying to think of how to put this thought politely into words. 

“No, no, John, I’m not imagining it, do keep up,” Sherlock says, sounding more distracted than irritated. “Carl Powers was framed. And you know who did it, too.” 

John shakes his head. “I—is that something I’m _supposed_ to know?” 

Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed, trained on Powers’ progress down the corridor. “Yes, of course, you were there. Outside the headmaster’s office, the day Powers was suspended. He practically told us it was him—god, how did I miss it?” 

John thinks back. It’s not actually difficult to remember the incident Sherlock is talking about, given what happened right afterwards: running down the corridors, falling into each other’s arms. Basically. He blinks, shaking his head, and pictures the scene outside the office. _A certain star athlete is about to be in a lot of trouble. His own fault, of course._

“Jim Moriarty?” John asks, skeptical, thinking of the pale, scrawny boy. Nasty, but not terribly threatening. “You think he framed Carl Powers?” 

“I know he did,” Sherlock replies, something dark and electric thrumming in his voice. “Now we just have to prove it.” 

He strides off down the hallway. Startled, John fumbles to keep up, trotting quickly after Sherlock despite the fact that his brain is protesting— _we?_

 

 

 

Sherlock’s on some sort of mission now. For all that he couldn’t have cared less about Carl Powers, the star swimmer or Carl Powers, the center of gossip, he is obsessed with Carl Powers, the wrongly accused shoplifter. Or, John amends, he’s obsessed with the mystery of how Moriarty pulled it off. And maybe a little bit with Moriarty himself. 

“But why would he do that?” John asks for the thousandth time as Sherlock performs some sort of chemical test on a sample of water from the school swimming pool, hovering over a table in the biology lab. “What does Moriarty have against Powers?” 

“Nothing,” Sherlock answers, as the water turns faintly yellow. “Or he was jealous of his popularity. That’s possible, I grant you, but I’m more inclined towards the former explanation.” 

“It’s not really an explanation at all, Sherlock,” John protests, and then the beaker hisses and steams and Sherlock pulls his face hastily away. “And what does the pool water have to do with it, anyway?” 

Sherlock sticks a thermometer into the still-steaming beaker and frowns. “Apparently,” he says, sounding disappointed, “it doesn’t.” 

John lets out a noise of frustration. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in his direction, smirking. “Oh, John, don’t pretend to be annoyed. You love this.” He swoops in and kisses John on the mouth, then turns to clean up the beaker. John sits there, dumbstruck, heart pounding, eyes flicking to the door. No one is peering in the window, of course, but they _could_ have been— 

“Come along, John,” Sherlock says cheerfully, not seeming to notice that he’s done something utterly extraordinary and unprecedented. “We’re taking a different tack now, I think. Should be quite good.” 

 _A different tack_ , John thinks dazedly. He supposes, as he follows Sherlock out the door, that you could call it that.

 

 

 

“No,” John says firmly, crossing his arms in his best “don’t-argue-with-me” pose. It’s worked on Harry before. Once or twice, anyway. “Absolutely not.” 

“But _why_ not?” Sherlock asks impatiently. 

“Because I don’t fancy being arrested.” 

“Oh, John.” Sherlock lets out a dramatic sigh, linking his ankles together and leaning against the wall of the school auditorium. “Don’t be boring. There’s very little chance that we would get arrested for watching the CCTV tapes of a local shoe store—” 

“ _Illegally_ watching the CCTV tapes,” John corrects. 

“—and anyway I’m the one doing the illegal bit,” Sherlock continues, unabated. “You’ll just be distracting him.” 

John rubs a hand across his forehead. “How do you even know they’ll be there? I bet the police confiscated them when they were looking into Powers’ case.” 

“Yes, yes, but they’re digital, John, they’d have copied them, not taken some VHS tape back to the station, this isn’t the nineties. All I have to do is sneak back into the office and watch them while you distract the manager.” 

John frowns. “Why don’t you copy them yourself? It would be quicker, so there would be less chance of getting caught.” 

Sherlock smirks, and John realizes belatedly that he’s just been tricked into behaving like he’s already agreed to do this. 

“I’m not saying I’m going to help you—” 

“Oh, come on, John,” Sherlock breathes, and suddenly he’s standing very, very close. John’s pulse speeds up. His well-honed senses prickle—there are people around, other students—but god, he can feel the warmth emanating from Sherlock’s body and his pale eyes are alight with the promise of adventure and for a mad moment John imagines grabbing his face and kissing him breathless right there. He restrains himself with a tight swallow but he knows Sherlock saw. 

“Have a little fun, for once in your life,” Sherlock whispers. “Stop being so responsible. That’s not really who you are, John.” 

The truth of this hits so hard that John is almost angry, but then Sherlock slides one finger across his wrist and _Christ_ , there are sparks exploding before his eyes and he’s nodding his head violently up and down. 

“Yes. Yes, fine, yes, I’ll help you break into the shoe store’s security system, damn you, Sherlock Holmes,” he says in a rush. “You win.” 

A smile cracks open across Sherlock’s face, and he looks positively gleeful. 

“I thought I knew my John Watson,” he says smugly, and John wants to wipe the smirk right off his face. Preferably with a very long kiss.

 

 

 

It’s easier than John expected—and a hell of a lot more fun. John goes in first, with some story about having holes in his winter boots and needing new ones that are waterproof and lightweight and preferably a particular shade of brown and in a certain price range and he’s being difficult enough that the manager hurries over to help the salesperson, and John sees Sherlock step inside, nodding nonchalantly in the direction of the employee behind the counter. As John hems and haws over the width of the soles, Sherlock wanders nearer and nearer to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door near the counter, studying the merchandise as he goes with precisely the right amount of intent and indecision. John can feel his blood pumping just below the surface of his skin, like he’s more alive than usual, his heartbeat louder, his breath sharper in his lungs. He marvels at Sherlock’s ability to look utterly innocuous at the same time he’s watching the person at the counter, waiting for her to ring someone up before he slips into the back room without anyone noticing. 

“I could see if we have these in your size,” the manager offers, tilting his head towards the door Sherlock just entered. Adrenaline spikes through John, throwing all his senses into overdrive. Just as he’s afraid he’ll seize up, giving the whole game away, a sort of miraculous calm comes over him, and he feels as though he’s looking at the situation from quite some distance. As if it’s purely academic, the question of what to do next. 

“You know,” John says thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure about them after all. It’s this buckle, see…” He shrugs. “I just don’t think it suits me.”

He notes with some satisfaction that he can see a vein pulsing in the manager’s forehead. “Ah, sorry,” he says, apologetic. “I’m being difficult. Look, don’t worry, I can sort it on my own…” 

“No, no,” the manager answers hastily. “We’re happy to help.” 

“Thanks, really, I appreciate it,” John replies, pleased with himself even as his mind is calculating how much longer Sherlock should need to copy the tapes. “Can I see those tall ones again?” 

The manager and the salesperson scramble to find the right size, and John sees the EMPLOYEES ONLY door open a crack, a sliver of Sherlock’s face visible, searching the room to make sure no one is watching. John gives him a tiny nod and Sherlock slips out, switching immediately into casual customer mode. John can’t deny it: it’s hot. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock gives John a quick wink before sauntering out of the shop. Warmth creeps across John’s cheekbones, and for the first time, he feels a little off-kilter. 

“Er,” he says, feeling a genuine flicker of guilt, “you know what.” 

The manager’s forehead vein throbs. He knows what’s coming. 

“I think I’m going to hold off,” John says. “I just—nothing is quite right. Sorry. Thank you. Actually,” he improvises, since the manager looks like he’s contemplating turning homicidal and the salesperson is near tears, “I do need socks. Let me just…yes. Erm. I’d like to…buy these socks?” 

He emerges onto the busy sidewalk two minutes later, clutching a pair of cheap white athletic socks and feeling both elated and embarrassed. The latter emotion vanishes when he catches sight of Sherlock, leaning against a lamppost, looking rather flushed himself, the ghost of a smile on his face. 

“You got it?” John asks, suddenly breathless. 

Sherlock takes John’s hand and slips it into his coat pocket, where John can feel a flash drive nestled next to a smooth glove. Sherlock’s fingers are cold. John is hyped up on adrenaline. 

“Sherlock…” he murmurs. 

He tries to removes his hand from Sherlock’s pocket but Sherlock tightens his fingers. The cars rushing past them seem louder than normal; somebody’s handbag jostles them, but they don’t move. A horn honks. A siren blares. Sherlock brings his face close, and slides his tongue into John’s mouth. 

“Not bad, back there. With the manager,” he says after a moment, his lips brushing John’s. 

John lets out a half-strangled noise as his world turns upside-down, and he kisses back, hard. 

“You were brilliant,” he manages, despite the terror that’s spiking through him, despite the glances they’re getting from a couple passersby, one curious, one mildly disapproving. He pulls away. “Are you…are we…can we watch it now?” 

Sherlock laughs, looking flushed and beautiful and _happy_. Sherlock, happy, is a marvelous thing. 

“Yes,” he says, and turns on his heel. John has to hurry to keep up.

 

 

 

They take the flash drive to a library branch Sherlock has never frequented before, hoping that his banned status doesn’t extend throughout the entire London Public Library system. John wouldn’t put it past the librarians to have sent out Wanted poster-style photos of Sherlock to all their co-workers: DO NOT LET THIS BOY INSIDE IF YOU VALUE YOUR CONTINUED SANITY. But they enter without incident, thankfully, and find a quiet corner in which to plug the flash drive into Sherlock’s laptop. John hasn’t asked how Sherlock knows how to hack into a security system; he suspects it has something to do with lessons learned (directly or otherwise) from Mycroft. He doesn’t really want to know. 

But he is impressed. Very impressed. 

He’s keeping that to himself if he can manage it—he does have his pride, after all. Though it’s hard not to hide his admiration as Sherlock passes him an earbud and opens up the security footage for the date Carl Powers supposedly shoplifted, expertly speeding it up so they don’t have to watch it in real time. He and Sherlock hunch over the computer, shoulders touching, excitement and anticipation sharp in the air between them. 

They watch the footage for the camera just inside the door of the shop, which shows every person who walked in and out that Saturday afternoon. Or at least, it’s supposed to. 

“What on earth…” Sherlock murmurs, raising his fingers to his mouth. He looks more at a loss than John has ever seen him. 

“Did I see that right?” John asks quietly, just as confused as Sherlock. “Did Carl Powers not go into the shop that day at all?” 

Bemused, Sherlock shakes his head. “It looks like it.”

They’d been working under the assumption that Powers had been in the store at the time, but hadn’t actually taken anything. John couldn’t see how else the accusation of shoplifting would have held up otherwise. 

“But—didn’t the police look at the CCTV? Didn’t the manager?” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Apparently not.” 

“But—why? That’s the first thing you’d do, isn’t it? Check the security footage?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, steepling his fingers, “unless you so sure you don’t even bother with it.” 

John frowns. “But the only reason you’d be that sure—” 

“Is if Powers himself confessed. Yes.” 

John looks at Sherlock, shocked. “Why would he do that?”

Sherlock stares into space. “I can think of at least seven reasons. Eight, under certain circumstances. But theorizing without proper data is a beginner’s mistake.” He stands, snapping his laptop shut. John scrambles to his feet. 

“So how…” 

“We’re going to ask him, of course.” Sherlock shoves his hands in his coat pockets, eyes gleaming with sudden alacrity. “We’re going to question Carl Powers.

 

 

 

Powers, unsurprisingly, does not want to talk to them. But Sherlock whispers a few words into his ear—John catches _shoe store_ and _CCTV_ —and the athlete pales and agrees to come along. They shut themselves in the bio lab after school, ignoring Sherlock’s experiments for a more immediate mystery. Sherlock settles himself on a stool, looking positively alight with gleeful anticipation, and John sits beside him, excitement and curiosity mixing with a slight sense of guilt for the suspicious way Powers is looking at them. 

“You lied to the police,” Sherlock says simply, without prelude. “You weren’t at the shoe store on the day you supposedly shoplifted.” 

Powers’ eyes widen. He glares at Sherlock, his broad forehead furrowed below his chlorine-bleached hair. “Yes, I was. And I _did_ shoplift. I never tried to deny it.” 

“No,” Sherlock says, “you didn’t. That’s precisely my question. Why didn’t you deny it? I’ve seen the security footage of the store that day. You weren’t there. The police didn’t bother looking because you admitted to stealing as soon as you were accused. Why?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Powers replies stubbornly. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. John can almost hear the gears whirring in his head. 

“Where were you really, that day?” Sherlock asks. 

Alarm flashes in Powers’ eyes. His muscled shoulders tense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Holmes,” he says. “How the hell would you have seen that footage, anyway?” He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “Forget it. I have places to be.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth angrily, and John can see what’s coming next—Sherlock’s rudeness, Powers’ quick exit. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, holding him back. 

“No, look,” he says to Powers. “We’re trying to help you, here. Somebody accused you of a crime you didn’t commit. Do you know who? Or why?” 

Powers turns back to him, looking wary. “I—I don’t know who told the headmaster, no.” 

“Well then,” John says, darting a glance at Sherlock, “we…we want to find out. It’s not right that you were wrongly accused.” 

Powers’s fist clenches. “No,” he says, voice low. “It’s not. But just leave it, okay? You’ll only make things worse.” 

“A party,” Sherlock says out of the blue. John and Powers’ heads swivel to look at the younger boy, whose eyes are gleaming. “You were at a party.” 

Powers stares at him, then crumples. “Shit. Fucking shit. Who told you?” 

Sherlock shakes his head impatiently. “No, no. Nobody told me. It’s obvious.” 

“Obvious?” Powers looks panicked. “How?”

Sherlock lets out an impatient noise. “Shirt cuffs, fingernails, the frequent bags under your eyes. The absence of Facebook photos of you on Friday and Saturday nights. Your haircut. Does it matter?” 

“Yes, if there’s any chance of someone else figuring it out,” Powers retorts. 

“Oh, everyone else is an idiot,” Sherlock says dismissively. “Well, almost everyone.” His gaze grows sharp, avid, and John feels a twinge of discomfort, as he’s been doing lately whenever Sherlock gets intense about James Moriarty. “Someone else _did_ know, didn’t they? They knew to accuse you of shoplifting on a day you were doing something you couldn’t use as an alibi. Brilliant, really.” 

“Sorry,” John interjects irritably, “but what’s wrong with being at a party?” 

Powers and Sherlock look at him, and he feels, briefly, like one of the idiots Sherlock was just talking about. 

“He was drinking,” Sherlock says. “Underage, and especially forbidden for athletes. Something else, too, yes?” he asks Powers. 

The boy nods resentfully. 

“Marijuana, most likely.” 

Powers says nothing. 

“But surely stealing is worse?” John hazards. 

“They’re going to let me back on the team next year,” Powers explains to the floor. “If I don’t get into any more trouble. But if they knew I’d been drinking and smoking, that would be it. They’d never have me back.” 

There is silence for a moment. John has a hazy feeling that something is not quite making sense. “But why…” he says, then stops. Sherlock looks at him keenly. 

“Yes?” 

“Why not just tell the headmaster Powers was at the party? Why go through the trouble to frame him for something else when the truth would get him kicked off the team anyway?” 

Sherlock shoots him a swift, almost predatory grin. “Very good, John. Why indeed?” 

John’s stomach turns over, his whole body flushing with heat. He has to look away from Sherlock for a moment. 

“They wanted him off the team,” Sherlock says slowly, “but only for a year. That’s the most likely explanation.” He turns to Powers. “Can you think of anyone who would want that?” 

Powers’ brow furrows. “Well…a couple of guys from other schools’ teams, maybe. Guys who’d have a better chance at winning—and at scholarships—if I weren’t competing.” 

“Anyone from Chesterton? Any of the upper-sixth swimmers who fancy the spotlight?” 

Powers hesitates, then shakes his head firmly. “No. No one on our team would do that.”

Sherlock looks deeply skeptical, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he paces back and forth a few times, then turns abruptly to Powers. “I know who set you up. Not who they did it for—you’re probably right, it was probably another swimmer—but I know who knew you were at the party, and who accused you of shoplifting.” 

Powers’ head snaps up. “Who?” he demands, looking murderous. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at John. For the first time, he seems uncertain. 

“I’m not sure…” he starts, then falls silent. He backs away from Powers, who still looks like he’s inclined to punch the living daylights out of whomever set him up, and steers John into the farthest corner of the room. 

“I…” Sherlock says, swallowing. John studies him, bemused. 

“What is it, Sherlock?” he asks in an undertone. 

“What am I supposed to _do_ with this information, John?” he asks, eyes flickering embarrassedly to the floor. 

“Oh,” John says, blinking. “Er…” 

Sherlock looks at him, the question still in his face, and John feels a flutter of warmth in his chest—Sherlock is asking for _his_ help. 

“Well….” John glances over at Powers, thinking. “Okay, so, if you tell Powers, he’s going to confront Moriarty. Probably beat him up.” 

John doesn’t think this is such a bad result, personally, but Sherlock’s face darkens. 

“And then he’ll really be sorry,” he mutters. 

John frowns. “Well, but if you tell the headmaster Powers was framed,” he says slowly, “Powers will be kicked off the team for good. I don’t see what other options we have.” 

Sherlock’s eyes smolder. His fingers clench. “Then _what good_ ,” he hisses, “is knowing all this?” 

John is at a loss for words. Sherlock looks fierce and helpless, pushing his hands against invisible barriers like the wings of an animal caught in a trap. John feels a sharp stab of sympathy, and a low rumble of anger gathers deep in his gut. Damn Jim Moriarty. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice tight. 

Sherlock lets out a growl of frustration, then strides back over to Powers. 

“You don’t need to know,” he says curtly. Powers starts to object, but Sherlock persists. “If you do anything to anger him, he will have you kicked off the team in a heartbeat. Or worse. Think about it, Powers, don’t be stupid, you don’t want to mess with him.” 

Powers looks mutinous, but after a moment he slumps. “Shit,” he mutters. 

Sherlock purses his lips, then picks up his bag and marches to the door. 

“John,” he snaps. 

John scrambles to follow. He hesitates on his way out, glancing over at the slouching figure of the disgraced athlete. 

“Sorry, mate,” he says awkwardly, then follows Sherlock out. 

The younger boy is striding rapidly down the corridor, past dawdling students and empty classrooms, a look of concentrated fury on his pale, angular face. 

“Sherlock, wait up,” John pants, hurrying to reach him. “Sherlock, listen, it’s not your fault—” 

“I know it’s not,” Sherlock snaps, still walking at the same unholy pace. 

“Well—” John struggles to say something useful. “Look, Moriarty’s a little shit, that’s all, just a bully—” 

“No.” Sherlock comes to an abrupt stop. “He’s not just a bully. He didn’t do this to Powers to bully him. He did it because somebody else paid him to—or just because they asked him, and he _could_. He’s detached. And he’s very, very smart. He’s dangerous, John.” 

John licks his lips nervously. “Dangerous, Sherlock? Really? Don’t you think that’s going a bit far?” 

Sherlock makes a noise of impatience. “Don’t underestimate him, John, just because he looks harmless. He’s anything but harmless.” 

John is probably imagining it, but below the fury and the resentment, is there a trace of admiration in Sherlock’s tone? Grudging admiration, yes, but still… 

“I have to go,” Sherlock says abruptly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

John blinks, taken aback. “What? Sherlock—” 

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock says, and whirls around, his long coat billowing out behind him as he heads down the corridor. 

“What…” John stares after him, confused, and a little hurt, and—yes, more than a little bit concerned. That look in Sherlock’s eyes, cold, determined, furious… 

John bites his lip and frowns, sharp prickles of worry erupting in his stomach.

 

 

 

When Sherlock rounds the corner of the equipment shed near the gym, Moriarty is already waiting for him. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” the scrawny boy says with a smirk. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He stares at Moriarty, feeling very cold and very calm and very, very angry. 

“Oh, you’re unhappy with me,” Moriarty pouts. “Didn’t you enjoy my little game?” 

Sherlock doesn’t blink. 

“You liked it, didn’t you, Sherlock? Following the clues? Playing the detective? I must say, I’m gratified by your attention—though it took you long enough to notice me. Disappointing, that.” Moriarty leers at him. “I thought I’d got your attention outside the office that day. But you were…distracted.” He licks his lips. “John Watson is quite tasty-looking, I do admit. But don’t you think he’s a bit slow for the likes of us?” 

Sherlock stops himself from lunging at Moriarty, but the boy sees, laughing silently. Sherlock’s heart is pounding in his ears. _He knows about John_. 

“Of course I know, Sherlock, you’d have to be blind not to notice,” Moriarty says breezily. “Haven’t shagged him yet, though, have you? Odd, that. Afraid he’ll run away if he remembers you’re a boy? Or are you worried about disappointing him? You’re not his first, after all.” 

“You are a pathetic little _bastard_ ,” Sherlock snarls. 

“No doubt,” Moriarty says agreeably. “But a brilliant one.” He steps closer, too close, his face inches away from Sherlock’s, and Sherlock has to struggle to keep breathing. “No one else is as smart as us,” he says, petulant and satisfied all at once. “Come play with me, Sherlock. We could have so much fun. _I_ don’t mind if people know. And life is so much less boring when you’re not worried about being _good_.” 

He places a pale, spidery hand on Sherlock’s chest and, very slowly, leans forward. 

“Get the hell away from me, Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock gasps out when his lips are centimetres away from the other boy’s, when he’s so close he can almost taste the mint of Moriarty’s gum. He stumbles backwards, heart pounding wildly, repelled and disturbed and aroused and _so angry._  

“I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it,” he spits. 

Moriarty looks shocked, then furious, and then utterly blank. 

“You’ll be sorry, Sherlock Holmes,” he says, voice low and venomous. “You’ll be very, very sorry.” 

He turns and leaves, and Sherlock stands there, shaking like a leaf.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have changed the rating to Explicit, mostly because I'd like to err on the side of caution. There is sex in this chapter--see the trigger warnings that follow--and though I've read (and written) much more graphic stuff, I know people's boundaries vary.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: first off, the sex is underage, just barely. Sherlock turns sixteen (the age of consent in the UK) on January 6, shortly after this chapter takes place. Also, by U.S. law, they are both underage. However, the sex is fully and explicitly consensual.
> 
> Trigger warnings also for alcoholism, mental health issues (see notes at end), and homophobia and homophobic language.

Sherlock Holmes happy, John thinks, is just about the most wonderful thing in the world. 

The whole time they’re working on the Carl Powers problem, Sherlock is _luminous_. John can almost see the thoughts pulsing through him like electricity, his brain making lightning-fast connections that crackle like sparks in his silver-grey eyes. Sherlock is sharp and focused and there’s no trace of the teeth-on-edge frustration that comes when he’s bored, nor the lethargy that ultimately follows. It’s contagious, too; John’s never felt so reckless and free, and it’s the first time in a very long time that he’s forgotten to feel guilty about not being at home. His dad’s been doing better, anyway—he still drinks, but less, and he’s got a temporary job for a few months and he and Harry seem to have made a tentative truce. For once, John feels like things are really looking up. 

He should have known it couldn’t last. 

It starts the day after the Powers business is so unsatisfactorily resolved. Sherlock comes to school the next morning and he’s just…quiet. Subdued. Skittish, too—John dares to touch him on the shoulder in the crowded corridor and Sherlock stiffens and quickly turns away. John’s stomach sinks, or swoops, really, a nauseous sort of dip that feels as though he’s on a ship that’s just crested a wave. It’s more a sensation of foreboding than anything else, or so it turns out, because Sherlock gets worse as the day goes on. He hasn’t snapped this much at John in ages. 

John’s not the only one who notices, not after three days of Sherlock alternately prowling the school like an irritable panther and leaning against walls for long periods of time, staring bleakly into space. Molly starts enquiring after him nervously (which makes John feel guilty, as he still hasn’t told her what’s going on between them), and Mrs. Hudson slips him a couple of biscuits as she passes him in the corridor one, asking if she’ll give them to Sherlock, “the poor dear, he looks so peaky, is he unwell, is there anything I can do?” 

There isn’t, and there isn’t much John can do either. Even when kissing Sherlock, he’s aware that the boy is slipping out of his reach. There’s a distance between them that hasn’t been there since they started—well, whatever it is they’re doing. And it isn’t as though John has forgotten the last time Sherlock was like this; he knows that Sherlock’s head gets crowded and muddled and difficult sometimes. But they weren’t—whatever they are—then. John realizes now, feeling foolish and angry, that he was hoping Sherlock might be better with him. That he might make Sherlock better. That this wouldn’t happen again. 

He tries not to resent the fact that he’s not enough. He tries not to feel insecure about the way Sherlock doesn’t shove him urgently into broom cupboards anymore, tries to tell himself Sherlock is just upset about Moriarty getting away with the Carl Powers business. It’s not that he doesn’t want John anymore. And John isn’t useless, just because his presence doesn’t make Sherlock feel better. He _isn’t._  

Surely there’s _something_ he can do? 

He drags Sherlock into a practice room at lunch—it’s too cold now to go outside—and sits him down on a piano bench. John sits, too, crammed between a couple of music stands and the corner of the cupboard-sized room. Sherlock looks at him, lifting an eyebrow and waiting, like he expects John to start snogging him and is more resigned to the idea than excited by it. Instead, John crosses his arms and looks him over, gathering his courage. Sherlock doesn’t tend to appreciate being questioned about his feelings, and John’s mindful of how badly he lashed out the last time they had a similar discussion. 

“What’s going on, then?” he asks, finally gathering his nerves. He tries to sound mild, calm, self-assured. “You’ve been a right terror, these past few days.” 

Sherlock scowls deeply, looking affronted. “I don’t know what—” 

“Is this about the stuff with Carl Powers?” John interrupts, keeping his voice steady. No need to scare Sherlock off. No need to betray how anxious he is. “And—and Jim Moriarty?” 

Sherlock hesitates. He looks down at his shoes. After a moment, he nods mutely. 

“Listen,” John says, looking Sherlock straight in the eye and saying the words he’s rehearsed over and over in his head. Rational words—Sherlock likes rational, surely that’s best. “It’s horrible, what he did. And I’m angry, too, about not being able to fix it. But Moriarty is going to get caught eventually. If he keeps trying stuff like that. He will get found out, and he’ll get what he deserves.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker away. His fingers twitch, just a fraction. The unhappy look on his face doesn’t change—if anything, he looks more miserable and more guarded. 

“He won’t,” Sherlock says in a low voice. “He won’t get caught. But that’s…that’s not…” 

John waits, something twisting inside him. He wants to contradict Sherlock—he doesn’t share his friend’s strange, twisted sort of faith in that pasty little bully, not one bit—but he’s sensing what he probably knew already: that maybe that’s all a bit beside the point after all. 

“The puzzle,” Sherlock says with difficulty. “It’s solved. It’s…over.” 

Yes. That’s it, then. It _is_ the same as before—Sherlock is bored. Even now, even with John occupying so much of his time, he needs the puzzles, the experiments, the questions burning to be answered. _Of course he does_ , John thinks, pushing weakly against a tendril of shame, _he’s still Sherlock. You can’t expect to be all he needs._  

“Right,” he says mechanically. “Like…like before.” 

Sherlock nods, nudging his toe against a stray piece of sheet music on the floor. “Like all the other times. Last fall. And at Eton. Only it’s…I think it’s worse. Going to be worse. Because it was so _good_ , John.” He looks almost pleading. “Wasn’t it good?” 

And it was. Reckless and brilliant and dangerous and just a little insane. 

“Yeah,” John admits. “It was really good.” 

They sit in silence for a moment. 

“Well,” John tries, feeling impotent but needing to do _something_ , “do you want to go to the bio lab? Work on the mucous experiment? You left off halfway through when the Powers stuff started.” 

Sherlock looks doubtful, and John understands—mucous can’t really hold a candle to illegally obtaining security footage or solving a real-life mystery. But it’s something, right? 

Sherlock seems to be thinking along these lines, because he shrugs and gives a halfhearted nod. “Okay.” 

They make their way to the bio lab, and Sherlock dutifully sets up his experiment, leveling off beakers and lighting Bunsen burners and taking notes. But the light of discovery is gone from his eyes, and even when the mucous samples turn a garish green that would normally make him chuckle with delight, he simply ticks something off in his notebook and sighs. 

“Not helping?” John asks, stomach sinking in disappointment. 

Sherlock shakes his head, then pulls off his safety glasses and slams them on the counter in frustration. He buries his face in his hands, rubbing furiously at his forehead. 

“Hey,” John says, a little alarmed. “Hey, Sherlock. Stop.” 

Sherlock looks up at him, skin pink, eyes like a cornered animal’s. 

“What can I do,” John asks helplessly. “Can I do something?” 

“Kiss me,” Sherlock says, voice low and raw and a little bit desperate. “Will you kiss me?” 

John hates that his first thought is of the window in the door and the not-quite-deserted corridor outside. He nods all the more emphatically for that, grasping Sherlock by the wrist and pulling him across the room, into a blind corner, and drags Sherlock’s head down to meet his. 

It’s open mouths and wet tongues straight off, needy and urgent and nothing like the distant kisses of the past few days, and it’s Sherlock who makes it that way, Sherlock who scrabbles for purchase on John’s chest, Sherlock who pushes him against the wall, Sherlock who’s kissing like he’s fighting, like he’s holding on for dear life. John gasps, dizzy, barely able to keep up, trying to give Sherlock everything he needs and he’s failing, he knows it from the way the boy just pushes and pushes for more, but God, is it a glorious failure, Sherlock’s hands sliding between him and the wall, down his back and down farther and _Oh God_ that’s new, John’s heart nearly rockets out of his chest, and Sherlock’s teeth are on his lips and Sherlock is feverishly warm and Sherlock gives one hard thrust against him— 

“Sherlock,” John chokes out, palm suddenly flat against his friend’s chest and it’s instinct, pure instinct, his hand solid and unmoving, a barrier between their bodies. 

Sherlock steps swiftly backwards, breaking contact, the shutters slamming behind his eyes. He reaches blindly behind him, grasping at the edges of a table, holding himself up against it as he pants for breath. He won’t look at John. 

“Sherlock…” John says weakly. His head is spinning. He can’t _think_. His body is a whirl of want and need and fear and adrenaline and yes, it’s as eager as Sherlock’s, that’s visibly evident, but it’s also on high alert, twitching and jumping and screaming _run_. 

John wills himself to hold out a hand. “Sherlock,” he says. His voice is feeble, unconvincing even to himself. “Come here.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea.” 

“But…” 

“I’m going.” 

John’s instinct is to call after him, follow him, drag him back as Sherlock strides from the room; but his instinct is also to stay silent and let him go and _not deal with_ the thing that just happened, the _thing_ , and before he can sort it out Sherlock is gone, that’s the edge of his coat whipping around the doorframe, and John is alone.

 

 

 

Sherlock starts skipping classes again. Not enough to land him in serious trouble, but enough that John begins to wonder, every time he sits down next to an empty chair, if Sherlock is slowly vanishing. He gets the sense that the boy is fading away, growing as pale and colourless as his eyes and blurring around the edges, where before he was all sharp angles and electric vibrancy. John can’t skip classes, not with exams coming up and university admissions to worry about, but whenever he can he trails Sherlock like a shadow, following him to whatever corner of the school he’s chosen to occupy that day. He sits in silence next to him, their shoulders not quite touching, sometimes for entire class periods; he’s not at all sure he’s welcome, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He won’t leave Sherlock alone. Not when he’s like this. 

It’s difficult, though: difficult not to feel as though it’s somehow his fault, difficult not to wonder if he ought to be doing something more concrete to help his friend. He thinks about therapists and psychiatrists and medication in a twitchy, guilty kind of way—is it his responsibility to _tell someone_ about Sherlock’s—depression, if that’s what this is? That’s what they’ve been told by teachers and administrators on the subject of mental health: tell someone, get help, don’t let your classmates and friends go through it alone, and it all seemed so reasonable in the abstract. But Sherlock once let slip that Mycroft made him see a psychologist on his expulsion from Eton, and the mix of anger, bitterness, and hidden but undeniable fear with which Sherlock spoke of the experience made John extremely wary of suggesting anything along those lines. Anyway, last time Sherlock sank into a black mood like this, he said that it just had to pass, that it would eventually go away of its own accord, and John wants to respect Sherlock’s wishes. 

_Or_ , a traitorous little voice whispers in John’s head, _you want to be the only one who can help him._

John pushes that thought down violently, furiously. He’s sticking with Sherlock because that’s what friends do. Because he doesn’t want the other boy to go through this alone. Because he cares about him. This is about Sherlock, not about John. 

And if sometimes John feels a tiny bit like a knight stubbornly guarding a crumbling fortress against dragons—solitary, steadfast, and sort of, well, virtuous—he tries not to admit it to himself. And if at other times he feels a sort of strange déjà vu when settling down next to Sherlock for a long, silent vigil, he certainly doesn’t connect it to all those hours spent preventing his father from drinking by keeping him company. Because this is _nothing like that_. 

This is about Sherlock. Not John. 

December creeps along and soon the holidays are upon them. Sherlock has shouted at Professor Lestrade twice now, and John knows he’s ended up in the headmaster’s office at least once, though it’s possible that was Mrs. Hudson’s doing, a ploy to stuff him with tea and biscuits. John hopes so, because he’s never seen his friend eat less. They also haven’t kissed since that day in the lab—Sherlock seems to be deliberately avoiding John’s touch—and if Sherlock were anyone else John would probably have concluded that their _thing_ was over for good. As it is, the only thing keeping him from assuming that Sherlock has simply lost interest in him is the fact that Sherlock has lost interest in _everything_ —it isn’t personal. That’s the best John can tell himself, and frankly, that’s pretty fucking bleak. 

But he shadows Sherlock all the same. Truth be told, he’s more determined than ever not to let him go. Not when Sherlock needs someone to stick by him. John isn’t giving up, and he won’t leave his friend alone. 

The end of term is suddenly upon them. It’s the day before the holidays start, and John’s last class is a free period. He’s sitting next to Sherlock, who is skipping his physics class, and the clock is slowly ticking down to the end of the day. They haven’t said a word so far, just sat on the floor in this disused corner by the janitor’s office, staring into space. Or rather, Sherlock is staring into space; John is staring at Sherlock.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. It’s nearly the end of the day. They’re about to depart for two weeks off school and John has been worrying about what exactly that means for him and Sherlock. They haven’t talked about it yet, and John is uncomfortably conscious of the fact that this is his last chance. 

“I’m glad its, erm, nearly Christmas,” he tries. “I’m ready for a break.” 

Sherlock says nothing for a long moment. Then he sighs. 

“I hate Christmas,” he says, a trace of bitterness colouring his voice. “All the meaningless noise just gets louder.” 

John isn’t sure what to say to that. He nudges his toe against the opposite wall, feeling the silence press in. 

“Mycroft is coming home today,” Sherlock confesses abruptly. “He’ll be in London at least through the New Year.” 

John winces. Mycroft is the last thing Sherlock needs right now. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Mmm.” 

Sherlock is looking at the floor again. John casts about for something to say, however inane it might be. 

“Got any…plans for the holiday?” 

“Locking myself in my room to avoid being interrogated by my brother, mostly,” Sherlock responds. 

John would laugh, normally, but there’s not a hint of a joke about the way Sherlock said it. He tries, with the doomed feeling of steering blindly towards an iceberg, to bring the conversation to safer waters. “I meant for Christmas. Do you—celebrate at all, or—” 

“We shall have an obscenely large dinner,” Sherlock answers, still staring at the floor, “not that there is anything specifically Christmasy about that. It is a common practice when Mycroft returns to London. Perhaps he thinks his mere presence is worth celebrating.” 

“What about—lights, or a tree?” John pursues desperately. “Do you, you know, decorate?” 

Sherlock looks at him, finally, but his face is so blank it curdles John’s stomach. “Why would we do that?” 

John gives up. “No reason. No. You wouldn’t.” 

There’s a silence. The question John really wants to ask is growing more insistent, filling up the air around them. 

“Will I see you at all over the holiday?” he bursts out. 

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, save for an infinitesimal lift of an eyebrow. “Do you want to?” 

He sounds a tiny bit surprised, but mostly as if he doubts very much that the answer will be yes and has long since resigned himself to it. John feels a twist deep in his gut, a painful sort of wrench. 

“I—Sherlock—of _course_ I _—_ ” 

“You don’t have to do this, John,” Sherlock interrupts flatly. 

“Do…what?” John asks, heart suddenly in his mouth, terror rising thick in his throat. 

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Sherlock answers, turning his face to the wall and shutting his eyes, as if he simply doesn’t have the energy to keep them open. “Soon enough it’s going to start feeling like I’m your father.” 

John can’t breathe. The air goes out of his lungs as if he’s been punched in the stomach. His whole body is swamped with fear, dense, liquid, stifling—there’s anger, too, but mostly fear, rising rapidly above his stomach, his chest, his neck. 

“Don’t pretend you haven’t done this for him,” Sherlock says. He sounds almost bored. 

“Sherlock, I—” John forces himself to say. “It—no. _This isn’t like that._ ” 

Sherlock merely looks at him, pale face set and eyes distant. His mobile buzzes. He looks down. 

“It’s Mycroft,” he says tonelessly. “I have to go.” 

He gets to his feet. After a second’s delay, John scrambles up too. 

“I’ll text you,” he says. He wants to grab Sherlock’s elbow, his waist, he wants to pull him into a kiss so deep they’ll both drown in it, but he can’t. He can’t move. 

“I’ll text,” he promises instead, the words even lamer upon repetition. Sherlock shrugs as if he doesn’t believe John and it doesn’t much matter, then sets off down the corridor, his shoulders hunched and his dark head bowed. 

John wants to cry.

 

 

 

Despite everything, Christmas is almost nice that year. After several long days of worrying about Sherlock, the holiday dawns clear and cold and bright. John awakens to the heavenly smell of eggs and bacon and tomatoes and pads downstairs to find his dad making a colossal fry-up, the kettle whistling on the stove and silverware set out on the table. Harry makes an unexpectedly early appearance, blinking in surprise, and they have a remarkably civil breakfast. They stay in pyjamas all day, his dad sticks to soda, Harry refrains from her usual snappishness and John manages to put Sherlock in the back of his mind. Nighttime finds them sitting companionably in the living room, the lights of the tree twinkling and the television quietly playing some old black-and-white Christmas film in the background. 

“Your mum loved this movie,” John’s dad says softly from the sofa. His feet rest comfortably on the coffee table and his eyes are unusually thoughtful. John can see the fairy lights reflected in them as tiny glowing dots. 

John’s eyes flicker to Harry’s, which are flickering to his. Their dad never talks about their mum, not even when he’s had too much to drink. John always pictures her death as a sort of derailing for his dad, a jolt that threw him off the tracks he was meant to be following. They were from different worlds, his parents, but as much as that caused friction amongst their extended family John can’t remember the two of them ever fighting about it. Maybe he was too little to notice. Or maybe it really didn’t matter. 

“She’d be proud of you both,” his dad says. His eyes are trained on the television, the grainy snow and the clasped hands of the hero and heroine as they dance together under the winter sky. “ _I’m_ proud of you both.” 

John feels a lump in his throat. He can sense Harry turning away, hiding whatever emotion has made it past her usual defenses. The lights on the tree glow softly gold, and the hero and heroine share a Christmas embrace.

 

 

 

The next morning, John sleeps late, and awakens to a text from Sherlock. 

_Mycroft called away on urgent business. Out of town for the rest of the holiday. Fancy a celebratory walk in the snow?_

John’s face splits open in a grin. He hurries to his window—sure enough, a light snow is falling. Sherlock has initiated contact with him for the first time in weeks, and it’s snowing. It feels, rather appropriately, like Christmas. 

_Meet you outside the school in half an hour_ , he texts back, and hurries into his clothes. He leaves a note for his dad and steps into the chilly winter air. It’s not quite cold enough for the snow to stick, but it’s lovely anyway, these unseasonably early flakes. 

Sherlock is leaning against the wall outside Chesterton, smoking a cigarette and looking more awake to his surroundings that he has in a long time. As John approaches, he flicks the cigarette to the ground and grinds it elegantly under his heel, then steps forward, hands in his pockets. 

“Happy Christmas,” John says, still a bit cautious, but unable not to smile. 

“It’s Boxing Day,” Sherlock corrects, raising an eyebrow. 

“Happy Boxing Day, then,” John replies imperturbably. They fall into step, walking away from the school and towards busier streets, where children shriek happily at the snow and even adults seem to be in thrall to it, grinning at strangers in happy communion over the small white flakes. 

“They’re good, your new trainers,” Sherlock says unexpectedly as they pass a Marks & Spencer, dodging the onslaught of shoppers apparently determined to stock up in case the snow gets worse. “Your dad obviously paid attention to your preferences.” 

John blinks. He did in fact get new shoes from his father for Christmas, and he had indeed been surprised at how well they suited him. Not that he’d told Sherlock that, though. 

“The jumper, though,” Sherlock continues with a shudder. “Most unfortunate. Your aunt has dreadful taste.” 

John is startled into a laugh. He’s not wearing his new jumper. He looks at Sherlock, and _yes, God, there it is_ —a little sparkle of mischief in his friend’s eyes. 

“How did you know—” He breaks off, grinning. “No. Never mind. Of course you knew. They’d have burned you at the stake a few hundred years ago, you know that?” 

He feels almost giddy with relief when Sherlock lifts a sardonic eyebrow as if to acknowledge his own superior genius. His friend is still too pale, too closed up—his hand are scrunched protectively in his pockets—but he’s there again, it’s him, he’s coming back. 

“You are right, though,” John confides. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to make it mysteriously vanish.” He smiles crookedly at Sherlock. “Seems like something you’d be good at.” 

“I’m sure that together we can come up with something,” Sherlock says gravely, and his eyes twinkle, and then his mock seriousness turns genuine. 

“John,” he says hesitantly, stopping under the awning of a sleek furniture store, “thank you.” 

John bites his lip. Somebody jostles him on their way into the shop, and he steps closer to Sherlock, half involuntarily. Sherlock’s cheekbones are sharp, too sharp, and there are shadows under his eyes. 

“For what?” he asks. 

Sherlock swallows. John can see his Adam’s apple bob. “For not leaving me,” he says softly. 

Tension John didn’t even know he was carrying melts away. His body grows lighter, his chest clearer. “Oh, Sherlock,” he breathes fondly, “you idiot.” 

He cups the back of Sherlock’s head in his palm and kisses him. Right there, in the middle of the sidewalk, snowflakes swirling around them and all of London seemingly passing them by and wishing them well. He kisses Sherlock on every street corner he can as they walk aimlessly around the city, through parks and past imposing brick houses and giant apartment buildings and department stores and amongst crowds of people. He’s never felt so free, so brave, but at the same time kissing Sherlock in public is shockingly natural, shockingly easy—the sky doesn’t fall in, and nobody calls them nasty names or worse, and anyway John is so happy that Sherlock’s black mood is relinquishing its grip that he really can’t be bothered to care what anybody thinks. 

When their lips are finally too chapped with cold and kisses to stay outside any longer, and Sherlock’s nose is an endearing pink, they start heading back. It’s midafternoon by now—they ducked inside a shop at lunchtime for a quick sandwich and coffee—and John figures he should probably put in an appearance at home. He’s even looking forward to it, after the success of yesterday. Add to that several hours of kissing Sherlock, and John’s not sure anything can dampen his good spirits. 

“See you tomorrow?” he asks Sherlock as they part ways. 

Sherlock nods and gives a ghost of a smile. “I’ll text you.” 

John smiles back. “You do that,” he says, and turns for home.

 

 

 

But when he steps inside, something is wrong. 

He can sense it in the way the air feels heavy, thick, tense. There’s no television on, which is unusual, and as he steps toward the kitchen, wary now, he can smell, beneath the grease of chips and fried fish, the sour scent of beer. 

His heart sinks and his hackles rise, his senses sharpening along with his caution. He can hear movement in the kitchen. He steps inside. 

His father is leaning against the counter, several empty bottles behind him and another in his hand. John can see more poking out of the trash. His dad’s face darkens as John walks in, and he takes a long swig of beer before slamming the bottle on the table. 

“Hi, Dad,” John says as steadily as possible. His heartbeat has picked up speed, but he knows from experience when his father is this far gone it’s best to appear as calm as possible. 

His dad says nothing for a long moment, just gives John a long, hard stare, his lip curled and his eyes narrowed. 

“You might be interested,” he begins, his voice just shy of slurring, “to hear what just happened to me.” 

John waits silently, not sure where this is going, his body on high alert. 

“I just got off the phone with Reggie Fowler,” his dad says, naming a friend of his from his old construction job. “Funny thing, Reggie couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Reggie,’ I says, ‘when are you gonna shut up and tell me what’s so funny, huh?’ And Reggie just keeps laughing. Finally he shuts up enough to say he went out today, down to the Boots by the Tube stop to pick up batteries for some toy his kid got for Christmas, some doll that really pisses when you put it on the crapper, what the hell kind of kid wants something like that—“ His dad sways, hiccupping, and then plows ahead, voice darkening—“and anyway when he walked outside he saw something he apparently thought was just about the funniest thing he’d ever seen.” 

John goes cold. Stomach-turns-to ice, blood-freezes-in-your-veins cold. The kind of cold that makes you shake until you feel ill. 

He and Sherlock walked past that Boots today. 

“He said he saw _you_ there,” his dad continues, eyes flashing. “He said—when he could shut up laughing again—he saw you _snogging a bloke._ ” 

John’s ears are roaring. He feels definitely nauseous now. He swallows, and it’s a struggle. 

“ _Is it true_ ,” his father breathes, swaying a little as he takes a step forward. It’s all John can do not to stumble back, but he forces himself to hold his ground. 

He takes a breath. Then another. He shuts his eyes, then opens them again. 

“Yes,” he says. 

His father looks shocked, then furious, and then suddenly whirls into motion, swinging his hand across the counter and sweeping the beer bottles onto the floor. They shatter with an enormous crash that sends John’s fight or flight instincts into overdrive. He backs against the wall, pressing his shaking palms against the wood, staring wide-eyed at his father. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” his dad bellows. “Is this some kind of sick joke? Are you trying to make me look like an idiot?” 

John blinks, and even through the fear and the adrenaline and the shame he’s ashamed of feeling, there’s a spark of anger. “I wasn’t thinking about you, dad,” he says as evenly as he can. 

“Damn right you weren’t!” his father spits. “Now Reggie’s going to tell everyone I’ve got a poofter for a son, did you think of that, did you even think of that, John, did you?” 

John hears, from up above, a telltale creak that means someone is hovering halfway down the staircase. _Harry_ , he realizes, heart sinking. _Oh, God, don’t let her hear this._

“Dad, just—keep your voice down, okay, we don’t have to—” 

“I’ll shout all I bloody well want!” his father yells. He is wild-eyed and too close to John, who can smell the beer on his breath. “And don’t you _dare,_ John, don’t you _dare_ do it again, do you hear me, you are not ever going to touch that boy again, whoever he was, or any boy, so help me God, because I will not have Reggie Fowler laughing at me like that, do you understand, you little fucking fa—” 

“ _Shut up_ ,” John hisses, loudly, forcefully, cutting his father off and shocking them both into momentary silence. John hears the stair creak again and wrenches courage up from somewhere deep in his gut. 

“Don’t you _dare_ call me that,” he says, locking eyes with his father. “Don’t you _dare_ use that word in this house.” 

For a moment John is sure his dad is going to hit him. But then his father’s lip curls and he backs away. 

“You make me sick,” he spits. “I can’t stand the sight of you.” He grabs his coat from the back of a chair and slams out the front door. John stands in the middle of the room, unable to move, until he realizes that he’s shaking violently. He collapses into a chair, grabbing his swimming head in his hands and breathing deeply. An unquantifiable amount of time gets lost, then, minutes slipping away as John tries to stop quivering. His father’s face is imprinted on the backs of his eyelids and the crash of the beer bottles is still resounding in his ears. 

Finally, his breathing returns to normal. Still trembling slightly, he fetches a dustpan and sweeps up the glass, putting it in an empty cereal box so it doesn’t cut anyone through the bin bag. He washes his hands under scalding water until they are red and smarting. Then he lets the water run to freezing cold and splashes his face. 

He goes upstairs. Harry’s door is closed, but he can sense her listening to his footsteps on the landing. He knocks. 

“What?” 

John opens the door. Her face looks like it’s been scrubbed clean. Her eyes are pink and puffy. 

“Hey,” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat. “I—I’m sorry about all that. We both know dad says stuff he doesn’t mean when he’s drunk, but still, you shouldn’t have had to hear it—” 

“Shut up, John,” Harry says flatly. Her face has grown wooden, hostile. 

Startled, John stops. “Sorry?” 

“Just…shut up,” Harry says again. John feels wrong-footed and rather wounded, and it must show on his face, because Harry’s expression turns derisive. 

“What, John, you thought you were going to come in here and _commiserate_ with me about how _hard_ it is to be gay? I know it’s fucking hard, John, it’s like this for me every day.” 

“I never said it wasn’t,” he begins, raising his hands, but Harry cuts him off again. 

“So you’ve been called a ‘faggot’ now,” she says bitterly. “Great. Welcome to the club. Enjoy your stay.” 

It’s these last words—said with a particular viciousness—that stop John in his tracks. 

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re _not gay_ , John. You followed Sarah Sawyer around like a puppy all last year. Look, when I hide in broom cupboards with my girlfriend, it’s not for the adrenaline rush, or to feel dangerous, or whatever. It’s because I don’t have a choice. When you’re done with whatever it is you think you’re doing with Sherlock Holmes—when you get bored, or tired of experimenting, or you realize that it’s actually _difficult_ —you can go right back to the way you were. I don’t get to do that. I’m not saying I want to, okay, it’s not like heterosexuality is some great big forbidden paradise I’m just dying to get into, but the point is that I’m not just _passing through_ , John, this is my _life_. So don’t come in here acting like we’re the same, like you _understand._ ” 

She bites off the last word and stands there with her arms crossed, looking belligerent and defiant and somehow hunted—like John is going to come after her, like he already has. 

“Well, fuck you, too,” is all John can think to say, and then gets out of that room before the air gets too close to breathe.

 

 

 

It’s not snowing anymore. It’s just cold and gray and John doesn’t have his coat but he doesn’t care, all he can think as he speeds down the sidewalk is _Fuck you_ , fuck you to his dad and his sister, _fuck them_ for taking his happiness and shattering it into a million pieces and grinding those pieces beneath their feet and spitting on them and okay, maybe that’s melodramatic, but it feels like that, like John’s insides have been wrenched through his throat and spread out and trampled and shoved back down so that he can’t even remember what he used to feel like, what he felt like this morning after kissing Sherlock on every street corner they passed. His dad, okay, his dad is a drunk and an asshole and John didn’t really expect anything else but what the hell is Harry’s problem? She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about, John promises himself, but on the other hand if that’s true then why is he so upset about it? 

He’s never been to Sherlock’s house before but he knows where it is, of course he does, and he strides up the front walk, hot and cold and breathless all at once, and knocks before he can stop himself, before the giant beast he’s sure has followed him from his house can catch up. 

“John,” Sherlock says, sounding startled, when he opens the door. 

“Is anyone else home?” John asks urgently. 

Sherlock shakes his head, puzzled, and John lunges forward, kissing Sherlock hard on the mouth and pushing them both backwards into the foyer, barely managing to shut the front door behind him. He shoves Sherlock against the wall, hands thrusting upwards under Sherlock’s shirt, meeting the smooth bare skin of his stomach for the first time. 

“John,” Sherlock gasps. John leaves off kissing Sherlock’s neck for a moment, though the roaring in his ears doesn’t abate. 

“Okay?” he pants, waiting for the boy’s response. 

After a moment, Sherlock nods jerkily. John dives back down, running his tongue under Sherlock’s collar, moving his hands upwards over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock shuts his eyes and breathes heavily for a moment, then slides his hands up under John’s jumper, tugging it to John’s armpits. They break off awkwardly as John shrugs it over his head, hindered more than helped by Sherlock’s urgent but inexpert hands, and then their mouths meet again, too hard, teeth clicking together. John can’t stop, though, won’t stop, feels as though if he stops the house will collapse around him, that all his father’s and his sister’s words will come booming back into his head and shake the world apart, so he keeps kissing as if it’s mouth-to-mouth, and when certain things become very obvious, pressed together as they are, John bites off the terror and the going-over-the-cliff sensation in his stomach and drops to his knees. 

Sherlock lets out a strangled noise and John says “Okay?” again, looking up at his friend, and Sherlock says “yes” in a way that sounds more like _don’t you dare stop_ and so John doesn’t, not when he’s confronted with this last, this most incontrovertible proof that Sherlock is in fact male, not when he chokes from his own eagerness, not when Sherlock starts to move and John starts to see stars and is gasping for air he can’t quite get, not even when it’s ending and Sherlock tries to make him pull away and he refuses, he _won’t_ , he’ll see this through and the taste is _terrible_ , worse than he’d imagined, and John nearly retches but he _won’t_ pull away, he won’t, he won’t— 

“John,” Sherlock gasps. John looks up, his vision swimming, and sits back just in time for Sherlock to collapse to the floor. The boy is shaking, his legs trembling as he leans back against the wall, looking strained and stunned and breathing hard. 

John wipes his mouth and sits back on the floor and feels the world collapsing in on him. 

“John,” Sherlock says, firmer now, and John twitches, blinks, pushes back the blackness encroaching on his vision and looks at Sherlock. 

The boy cups John’s face very gently in his slender fingers. John feels his breathing even out as he looks into Sherlock’s pale eyes. He swallows, the sour taste in his mouth threatening to send his mind careening away again, and Sherlock kisses him softly on his forehead. 

John feels himself folding into Sherlock’s arms, letting his limbs be arranged into a semi-comfortable position half in the other boy’s lap. Sherlock caresses his shoulders—a curious, calming, hypnotic motion, like being petted—and then slides his hand slowly downwards, and John realizes with something like shock that he’s forgotten that there are two parts to this equation. 

He stiffens, but Sherlock makes a soothing noise and buries his nose in John’s hair. John relaxes and lets go, lets his friend do what he wants. The first touch is unexpectedly gentle, and Sherlock breathes in as if to smell the nape of John’s neck as he moves his hand slowly and cautiously, almost curiously, and John leans into the sensation. 

Time is looping, John supposes, or bending back on itself, or something, because he’s lost in a haze for what seems like hours, conscious only of Sherlock, of Sherlock’s entire body, of Sherlock’s knee pressed against his side and his nose against John’s cheek as much as Sherlock’s hand between his legs. Sherlock breathes his name and John tips over the edge, suspended in the circle of his friend’s body for what seems like an age. 

John blinks back to himself, finally. He finds himself nose to nose with Sherlock, nestled against him like a baby bird, and he blushes faintly. Sherlock’s cheeks grow pink, too. 

They take separate showers and Sherlock gives him the guest room, but tucked into Sherlock’s spare pyjamas and between sheets that smell like Holmes, John feels as safe and warm as he did with Sherlock’s arms around him, with Sherlock’s voice whispering his name in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is clear in the chapter, but John's approach to Sherlock's mental health stuff is not necessarily the best or the healthiest in real life--that is, I as author am not making recommendations about how to deal with it if you or your friends have issues with depression, etc. For that matter, I am also (obviously, I hope) not in agreement with Harry's criticism of John's experience of his sexuality. Bisexuality, or whatever you want to call it, is not the same as choosing between being gay and straight (thank you very much).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for more underage sex in this chapter--again, it's fully and explicitly consensual. References, too, to alcoholism and homophobic attitudes.

The smoke alarm wakes John up the next morning. 

He barely has time to register that he’s in Sherlock’s house, in Sherlock’s pyjamas—and to remember everything that happened yesterday—before he’s on his feet, running down the stairs towards the harsh beeping noise. He can’t smell smoke at first, but by the time he slides into the kitchen there’s a definite burnt scent in the air. 

He takes in the situation at a glance. Sherlock—covered, perplexingly, in flour—is standing in the middle of the room, looking both outraged and utterly, helplessly panicked. There’s a thin plume of smoke rising from the toaster, but no flames, so John grabs a dishrag and starts waving it below the smoke detector, trying to clear the air. 

“It didn’t toast properly the first time, so I put it in again,” Sherlock says, sounding aggrieved. He glares at the toaster and then at the smoke detector as if both appliances have personally offended him. John tries very hard not to laugh. The beeping stops, and Sherlock lets out a sigh of ill-disguised relief. 

“Horrible thing,” he says. “It must be defective.” 

John goes over to the toaster and gingerly removes two blackened pieces of bread. “Or, erm, not.” 

Sherlock huffs, sending a thin layer of flour dancing around his head and shoulders. John surveys him and then the kitchen, which is a veritable disaster zone: a soggy tomato splattered across the floor, pots and pans spread willy-nilly over the granite countertops, the charred toast, and, mysteriously, several half-cooked, runny eggs on the stove mixed with— 

“Did you put _flour_ in here?” John asks, eyebrows shooting up as he steps over to inspect the burner. 

Sherlock hesitates. “To stop them from sticking,” he replies petulantly. “You put flour in the pan to stop them from sticking.” 

John lets out a yelp of laughter and then quickly covers his mouth. “That’s—sorry. Ha. That’s cakes, Sherlock, baked goods. You use oil or cooking spray to stop eggs from sticking, not flour.” 

Sherlock looks deeply embarrassed, then scowls even deeper. 

“Have you, erm…” John lifts the pan of eggs and scrapes it into the bin. “Have you ever made breakfast before?” 

“Mrs. Turner does it,” Sherlock replies defensively. “Or I don’t eat. Normally I don’t eat.” 

John whacks him lightly on the back of the head. “Not good. Eggs, please?” He puts a clean frying pan on the stove and locates the nonstick cooking spry. Sherlock offers him the carton dubiously, and John cracks a couple of eggs. 

“Here,” he says, putting the spatula into Sherlock’s hand. The younger boy takes it automatically before his eyes widen and he holds it away from him like it’s just become a venomous snake. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks. 

“I’ll teach you,” John replies mildly. The sight of Sherlock, dusted with flour and holding a spatula at arm’s length, is frankly adorable, an adjective which, if it ever crossed John’s lips, would signal the end of his life at Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock approaches the stove warily. 

“Scrambled?” John asks. Sherlock nods. “Okay, easy enough. You want to break the yolks, go on—yeah, like that. Keep stirring them around so they don’t burn. Good, yeah, that’s good.” 

Sherlock gives the eggs an authoritative push and sticks his nose loftily into the air. “Of course it is. I’m a genius.” 

“You prat,” John laughs, sliding around to his other side and putting another pan on the stove, this one with tomatoes in it. His elbow grazes Sherlock’s comfortably as he turns on the burner. 

“Hang on, they’re sticking over there,” John instructs, placing his hand over Sherlock’s on the spatula. “Can’t have that.” 

“I’ve got it under control, John,” Sherlock protests, but he doesn’t extricate his hand. 

John snorts. “Just like you did when I walked in, hm?” His hair brushes Sherlock’s cheek and they smile at each other, John’s heart skipping a beat. 

“Coffee or tea?” he asks. 

“Tea,” Sherlock answers. “I can make it.” 

“You do know the teabag goes in _after_ the kettle boils, yeah?” 

“Shut up, John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock replies haughtily. 

“I will not, Sherlock Holmes,” he answers back. He plops the tomatoes onto a plate. “Why didn’t you just wait for me, if you didn’t know how to cook this stuff?” 

To his surprise, Sherlock blushes. He mumbles something John can’t make out. 

“Sorry, what was that?” 

“I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed,” Sherlock confesses to the countertop. 

John’s breath catches. Absurdly, he feels a lump rising to his throat. 

“It was stupid, I know, sentimental, forget it—” 

John takes Sherlock’s face firmly in his hands and plants a kiss on his still-moving lips. “It was brilliant,” he says hoarsely. He clears his throat, turning back to the stove. “Anyway, now we can both have breakfast in bed. Together.” 

“Really?” Sherlock asks uncertainly. 

“Yep. Let me attempt to conquer the evil toaster first and then we’ll take this all upstairs.” 

It takes a couple trips, but they manage to carry everything to Sherlock’s bedroom and lay it all out on the quilt. It’s more like a picnic than anything, as they sit cross-legged atop the coverlet, and John feels a little like he’s four years old again. The room adds to that sensation: it’s clear that Sherlock hasn’t redecorated in quite some time, as the walls are pale blue with a border of pirate ships and treasure chests. 

John can’t believe how lovely this all is. He can’t believe that after the way things happened the day before, Sherlock wants to feed him eggs and toast and sit with their knees touching on the bed. 

“Sherlock,” he says hesitantly. “About last night.” 

Sherlock looks suddenly nervous. 

“I—” John searches for words. “Just—thank you.” 

“For what?” Sherlock asks, sounding surprised. 

_For letting me into your home when I couldn’t stand mine. For turning what might have been the most selfish sex ever into something sweet and lovely. For whispering my name._

“Did something happen yesterday?” Sherlock enquires warily when John doesn’t answer. “Before you came over?” 

John nods. He picks at a loose thread in the quilt, takes a deep breath. 

“My dad found out. He, erm, his friend saw us kissing yesterday.” 

Sherlock goes pale. “Oh,” he stutters, “I—oh. I’m—I’m sorry, I—” 

“It’s not your fault—” 

“I’m sorry—” 

“Sherlock,” John says, shaking his head. “Don’t, really. It isn’t your fault and it…it needed to happen anyway.” 

Sherlock swallows. “How did it go?” 

John laughs. “Bad. Really bad, yeah. And, er—Harry was, she was really nasty about it, I didn’t—I didn’t expect that.” He rubs his hand over his face. “So I, well, I was really upset when I came here, and I didn’t…I didn’t mean it all to quite, erm, go the way it did…” 

Sherlock moves visibly backwards on the bed. “Oh,” he says, suddenly not meeting John’s eyes. His voice is alien: hollow, blank. “Oh.” 

John frowns. “I—I just mean, I’m sorry it was so…” _Needy? Rushed? Desperate?_

“Did I do it badly?” Sherlock asks abruptly. His eyes are fixed on his lap. “I haven’t—before. Did I…” 

“No!” John cuts in, startled. “No, God, no, Sherlock, you were—lovely. Really.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t—erm—do what you did,” Sherlock says, voice lowered. “I just…” 

“Oh my God,” John says, eyes widening. “No, no, that’s totally fine. And totally—normal, not to—the first time. Seriously.” Dismayed, he looks at Sherlock’s drawn face, his worried brow. “Hey. Look at me. Sherlock.” 

Reluctantly, the boy looks up. 

“I only meant—it’s not how I pictured our first time.” John goes a bit pink; God, talking about sex is always so difficult. “I wanted to, I don’t know. Take…more time.” 

Sherlock looks only fractionally less distraught. John curses himself for not managing to get his point across more clearly. _Well, I give up on words_ , he thinks ruefully, and reaches for Sherlock. 

This kiss is slow and leisurely and tastes faintly of tea. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed like a cat’s. John cups the back of his neck, running his thumb through Sherlock’s silky hair. 

“John, we don’t have to…” 

“But I want to,” John murmurs, sliding his palm across Sherlock’s chest. His own heart is pounding ridiculously. “If you do. A sort of…second try?” 

Sherlock nods. John kisses him deeper, then breaks off to move the breakfast things; fumblingly, they put the empty plates on the floor, breathless and awkward, and then John kisses Sherlock again, lowering them both gently until they’re lying atop the quilt, Sherlock’s curls splayed out against the blue and white squares, John’s weight half on his chest, half on the bed. 

His heart is fluttering like it hadn’t the night before, and when he pushes up Sherlock’s white T-shirt he takes the time to really feel the muscles there, tight and hard, the thin dark hairs across his chest. Sherlock’s body is so strange and yet so familiar—so different from Sarah Sawyer’s and so like his own. Thinner, though, with ribs just a bit too prominent, and paler, white under John’s darker skin— 

“Up,” Sherlock says, tugging at John’s own shirt. John sits up and pulls it over his head, and Sherlock scrambles out of his. Swallowing down butterflies, John swings a leg over Sherlock’s and presses their bodies together. Sherlock gasps, then nods rapidly in answer to John’s questioning look. John slides his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and things get a little faster, then, sharper and blurrier somehow all at once. 

“Can I—” he asks breathlessly, tugging at Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. 

Sherlock nods. It’s impossible, John thinks, to remove one’s trousers gracefully when one is lying down; he has to roll off Sherlock and it’s all a bit silly for a moment as both of them struggle with drawstrings and socks, but then they are both very suddenly _not wearing clothes_ and without the adrenaline rush of the night before John feels shy. 

He kisses Sherlock again to regain his bearings and yes, it helps, God, it helps, though he doesn’t feel any less exposed; in fact, the kiss only makes him feel more naked, bare skin again bare skin—and that’s fear, there, in the back of his throat, but Sherlock is kissing with his eyes wide open as if to drink John in and John wants to _drown_ in those eyes. 

“Christ, Sherlock,” he gasps as Sherlock runs a hand all the way down over the curves of his backside. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle—John can feel Sherlock’s smile under his own lips. 

“You twat,” he says, swinging his leg back over Sherlock’s. The boy’s eyes widen and his breath constricts, and John smirks, but then they settle against each other and suddenly waiting is not an option for either of them anymore. 

Moving quickly results in some minor hitches, and they have to adjust several times, and it’s certainly, John can’t help but note, not quite so intuitive as with a girl—but he thinks this with some distant, removed part of his brain while the rest of him is awash with waves of sensation. He cannot get over how _good_ Sherlock feels, how shockingly good, for all his sharp angles. Sherlock doesn’t seem to want to stop kissing him, and John doesn’t object in the least; they keep their lips on each other’s as they hurtle forward, and it’s like an anchor, a lifeline in this spinning, swirling vortex. It’s _Sherlock_ beneath John, _his_ lips, _his_ teeth—John keeps thinking this in little starts, _It’s Sherlock_ , and somehow every time it’s a surprise, every time it brings him closer and closer to the end. 

John finishes first and he’s glad because he can give Sherlock the attention he didn’t the night before, though it doesn’t last much longer and soon they’re tangled up in each other, sweaty and breathless. 

“Hot,” Sherlock groans, pulling himself away to lie spread-eagled on the quilt. John looks at him almost surreptitiously, through lowered lashes. He’s flushed, all the way down his chest, and stunningly, staggeringly beautiful. 

Beautiful: it’s not a word he’d ever thought he’d use to describe another man. 

_So there, Harry,_ he thinks, fingers clenching into fists. _So there, Dad. Sherlock is beautiful and I don’t care what you say._

He catches Sherlock watching him, gazing at his tensed hands, worry stealing over his face. John feels a flare of guilt erupt with a hiss in his belly, like the flame of a Bunsen burner being switched on. He shouldn’t be thinking about Harry and his Dad right now. He shouldn’t have been thinking about them last night, either; they shouldn’t have been the reason he rushed over here and…did what he did… 

“John?” Sherlock enquires, brushing his fingertips cautiously against John’s cheek. The hesitation in the touch almost breaks John’s heart. He kisses Sherlock hard on the mouth, startling the breath out of him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and then wishes he didn’t sound so defiant. Sherlock blushes anyway, faint pink blooms spreading across his pale cheeks. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” he sniffs. “I’m not. I’m—skinny and…and pointy, and I’m very pale. My skin tone is approximate to that of a recent corpse.” 

John lets out a yelp of laughter. “You also have a way with words, Sherlock Holmes,” he says, some of the tension dissipating from his body as a rush of fondness for this mad, brilliant, idiotic boy sweeps through him. “Wrong as you are.” He swings himself out of bed, consciously refraining from covering himself up with his hands—he feels suddenly very naked. “Erm, do you think I might wash my clothes? They’re a bit, um…” 

“Ah.” Sherlock sits up. “Yes. Yes, of course, only…” 

He looks embarrassed. John cocks an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know how to use the washing machine.” 

John rolls his eyes. “You’re useless, you know, for someone who’s supposed to be a genius. We’ll figure it out, Sherlock, it can’t be that hard.” He pulls on the pyjama bottoms he wore to bed and heads barefoot to the spare room. His clothes are crumpled on the floor, very much, as he suspected, a mess. Gingerly, he picks them up, and his mobile falls out of his trouser pocket. 

He switches it on with a feeling of foreboding. He’s got two voicemails and four texts, all from his father. 

Heart sinking, he stares at the phone. He curses his pulse for speeding up, then shuts his eyes and presses “listen.” 

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at,” his father’s voice slurs, angry and far more intoxicated than when John last heard it. “Get the—it’s two a.m., for fuckssake—get the fuck home, you hear me, or you’re in more, in even more trouble than…than you are. Already are. You get here right now, John, or I’ll—” The message cuts off with a beep. 

John breathes in through his nose, biting his lip, as something chaotic and nasty starts banging around in his chest. He steels himself and presses play on the second voicemail. 

“Fine,” his father’s voice says, almost unintelligible now. “Don’t come home. Don’t want to see you, don’t…ever come home again. Fine.” 

The voicemail ends. John’s teeth are digging into his lip so hard he tastes blood. Hand shaking, he opens the text messages. The first is from 8:26 this morning. 

_where are you?_

The second, 8:43. 

_shit. did I leave you voicemails last night? if I told you not to come home I didnt mean it. you should know that._

The third, 9:30. 

_get your arse back here right now, John Watson, you are in serious trouble staying out all night. we have things to discuss. you better be home asap young man._

John rubs his forehead. The rumble in his chest seems to have grown claws and teeth; he feels like he’s in physical pain. 

The last text is from 10:24, fifteen minutes ago. 

_Please just let me know you’re alright, John._

He sighs. For a long moment, he stares at his mobile. Then he punches in a few words. Deletes them. Tries again. 

_I’m fine. Not hurt or anything. Safe._

He thinks for a moment. 

_No thanks to you,_ he types, then deletes it. 

_Do you really want me to come home?_  

He deletes that too. Presses send, before he can add anything else. 

When he stands up, Sherlock is hovering in the doorway, looking uncertain. John attempts to smile, but it feels like a grimace.

John’s mobile buzzes. 

_Where are you? You need to come home right now._  

“You can stay here,” Sherlock says abruptly. “As long as you need to. Or…well, until Mycroft comes back.” 

John stares at him. 

“In the guest room, I mean,” Sherlock adds in a rush. “If you want. I can—lend you clothes, they’ll be too big, but we can roll up the sleeves, I mean, you can, or not, I understand if you want to go elsewhere, home, or to Stamford’s perhaps, or—” 

“Sherlock.” John puts up a hand. His head is swimming. He imagines what it would be to disobey his father like that, staying away from home for days on end without permission—such a colossal act of rebellion, _running away from home_ , he was always the good kid, this feels like something Harry would do, has done, in fact, at the age of ten, hiding out at her friend’s house until their dad, angry and trembling with fear, found her and took her home, and she wept into his jacket and clung to him like she never wanted to let go—only this is real, this is _adult_ , this is John severing something that can’t be stitched back together with tissues and cocoa. This is a choice he can’t take back. 

“Okay,” he says, pulling himself up, as if a straight spine and squared shoulders can make him the grown-up he isn’t ready to be. “Yes. I have to go home eventually, but not…not on his terms. When I’m ready.” He nods sharply. “Yes.” 

For a moment, as he and Sherlock look at each other gravely, soberly, he feels as though he is in fact mature, adult, that they are like generals in the army, making a decision with consequences so terrible, so far-reaching, that to utter the words is to set fate in motion—and then he notices that Sherlock still has a bit of flour in his hair, and they are kids again, a couple of teenagers without a clue what they’re doing, and John is lost and far away from home.

 

 

 

Sherlock, it turns out, has tricked his housekeeper/cook/sort-of-nanny, Mrs. Turner, into thinking Mycroft gave her a holiday until his return. John hears this news with a combination of amusement and disapproval, as he knows perfectly well that it means Sherlock would hardly have eaten a thing over the holiday. 

“It’s a good thing I can cook,” he says, surveying the kitchen critically. “And I must say you’re well-stocked.” 

The cabinets are full of things from Fortnum and Mason, Marks and Spencer, even Harrods—perhaps Sherlock wasn’t exaggerating his elder brother’s appreciation of food after all, or perhaps this is simply what a wealthy family’s kitchen looks like. 

“Your father again,” Sherlock says, looking at him with that focused, distant sort of gaze that means he’s deducing things everyone else can’t see. “You learned to cook after your mother died, because your father was often incapable of fixing anything more involved than a frozen dinner.” 

John blinks. “Er, yes,” he says. “I…that’s true.” 

Sherlock catches something in his tone and bites his lip. “That’s one of those things I shouldn’t have said, isn’t it?” 

John shrugs a shoulder. “Probably. It’s fine. I—don’t mind, actually.” To his surprise, he finds that it’s true. He’s been hiding the fact that he’s good in the kitchen (and around the house, generally; he usually dusts and does his and Harry’s laundry) for years. Somehow it always felt like if Mike and Bill and the others found out, it would be real, permanent: John has always considered his cooking and cleaning a temporary fix, something he can stop doing once his father gets better. But that’s not going to happen. John knows that now, he realizes, knows it isn’t all going to magically change one day. And anyway, it’s Sherlock: it’s okay if he knows that, too. 

“Lunch,” he says, forcing himself to sound cheerful. “What shall we make?” 

“But we just ate breakfast!” Sherlock protests. 

“Three meals a day,” John replies, rooting through the fridge. “Most people like that, you know.” 

“Most people are boring,” Sherlock grumbles. But he allows John to show him how to fry up a cheese and tomato sandwich, and even eats some of it, too. John counts this as a private victory. 

His dad calls for the first time as they’re washing up. John hesitates, watching the screen of his mobile light up, listening to it ring, not sure if he wants to answer. It goes to voicemail before he decides, and he turns back to the sink. 

It rings again when he and Sherlock are sprawled on the couch, watching crap telly—well, really, John is watching Sherlock watch it; the younger boy’s derisive disbelief (he seems never to have experienced daytime reruns on BBC) are far more amusing than anything on the screen. He ignores his mobile again, willfully this time, feeling both brave and guilty. 

By dinnertime, his dad won’t stop calling. He’s obviously just hanging up and dialing again immediately every time; John can imagine him doing this, sitting on the sofa with his mobile, maybe drunk, maybe not. The image makes him inexplicably sad. 

“Dad,” he says, finally caving in and answering. 

“John!” His father’s voice sags with evident relief. “Jesus Christ, John, where have you been?” 

John pauses. His eyes flicker to Sherlock’s; the other boy is watching him anxiously. John reaches out and takes his hand. 

“I’m fine, Dad, I told you.” 

“But where are you? What were you thinking? For all I know you could have been sleeping on the street, or worse—” 

“I’m not sleeping on the street, Dad,” John says, squeezing his eyes shut, not continuing his thought: _and you wouldn’t have known if I were because you were passed out drunk._

“Well, you’re coming home now,” his dad says. There’s a note of ominous finality in his voice that John has heard directed at Harry many times (not, he admits, to much effect). 

“No,” he says, swallowing. He grips Sherlock’s hand tighter. “I’m not coming home. Not yet.” 

Silence resounds from the other end of the line. Sherlock squeezes his hand. John breathes in but can’t manage to breathe back out. 

“I’m telling you to come home,” his father says, voice growing dangerous. 

“And I’m telling you I’m not ready,” John answers. 

“I’m your father!” John’s dad explodes. John jumps, jerking the phone away from his ear. “If I say you’re coming home, young man, you’re coming home!” 

John’s stomach roils queasily. This is the point at which Harry would normally start shouting back, escalating the argument into a screaming match that nobody wins. To be honest, John feels more like giving up and going home, because his dad’s in pain, he is, really, and he’s not well, it’s not his _fault_ that he’s like this… 

“No,” he says instead: calmly, steadily, slowly. “I’m not.” 

Another long pause stretches out. “What the hell has gotten into you, John?” his dad asks, and this time he sounds hurt and confused, below all the blustering anger. “This isn’t like you, any of it. Is this—are you trying to get my attention here? Is something wrong? Because you and a—a boy, John, that’s not—like you, and staying out all night—have I done something? Are you in trouble, somehow, are you…I know I’m not, you know, always there for you, and if you’re acting out to get my attention, well, maybe that’s not…not your fault, really. Just—come home and we’ll get you sorted, okay?” 

John feels a wave of nausea roll over him, thick, horrible, overwhelming. He actually considers running for the toilet. He swallows hard, forcing it down.

“I don’t need sorting, Dad. Bye.” 

He hangs up. 

“John,” Sherlock says tentatively. John looks at him blankly, and then, oh, Christ, there’s something hot and inexorable welling up in John’s chest and his eyes are spilling over and great wrenching sobs are coming out of his mouth from somewhere deep in his gut and he hasn’t cried like this in _years_. Sherlock freezes for a moment, looking terrified—John can’t help that, he can’t stop—and then the younger boy comes over and places a timid hand on John’s shoulder. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and buries his face in Sherlock’s belly, soaking his shirt in seconds, muffling his cries in the fabric. Sherlock’s hands come up hesitantly and stroke John’s hair, rhythmically, soothingly, over and over, and John holds him and cries and cries and cries.

 

 

 

Staying with Sherlock in these particular circumstances is a peculiar experience. It feels half like the two of them are camping out in hostile territory, on a deadly serious mission in enemy terrain, and half as if they are only playing at such things. They go out to buy John a toothbrush and some socks and the shop is like a battlefield, the items spoils of victory; but when he brushes his teeth that night the toothbrush no longer carries the weight of John’s decision, his defiance and his determination—it’s only a toothbrush, and perhaps he is foolish to think that what he is doing is more than a juvenile act of rebellion. He asks Sherlock to pass him the salt at dinner, or if he’s got laundry that needs doing, and John thinks _this is adulthood, this is what it means to grow up_ ; and then they are giggling and poking each other under the blankets as they watch a movie until two a.m. and John is nine again, this is a sleepover, the rules he’s breaking are no more significant than the time at which he’s supposed to turn out the lights and go to sleep. 

It’s all very confusing. 

He’s also shocked, frankly, at how well he and Sherlock get on even when they’re together almost all the time (John’s still sleeping in the guest room, by mutual agreement). True, there are hours when Sherlock disappears into the experiments he’s got set up around the house—he keeps mould projects in the fridge, John discovers to his dismay one morning—but when that happens, John is content to sit and watch him and read the spy novels to which Mycroft Holmes is apparently addicted. Really, it would be a surpassingly lovely way to spend a week or so if John didn’t feel vaguely as though he were under siege. 

Twelve days after John shows up at Sherlock’s door, they finally talk about the thing they’ve both been avoiding: the end of the holiday. Term begins the day after next, and John’s going to need his books and papers, and he can’t really show up at school in old jeans of Sherlock’s rolled up at the cuffs. He’s also starting to feel more like he’s hiding than fighting, now, that somewhere along the line defiance turned into avoidance and it might be time to face his dad again. 

It’s eight p.m., and they’re in Sherlock’s bed. Rather to John’s surprise, they have only had sex twice more since John started staying with Sherlock. It was a tentative, nervous sort of dance both times—he thinks that maybe neither of them is quite sure how to go about initiating things when they’re not under any pressure. He doesn’t mind taking it slow, actually; it’s all still so new and strange. But now, with thoughts of school and home hovering over both their heads, John is keenly aware that this might be the last chance they get in awhile. 

They kiss for a long time. John gets the sense that Sherlock likes kissing so much because he’s still surprised anyone would want to do it with him, that someone is allowing him to put his tongue in their mouth. John likes kissing because (he doesn’t quite want to admit) it’s the most familiar of all the things he and Sherlock can do together, the safest, surest ground. 

It turns out, though, that there is one other thing that’s shockingly familiar: mouths, after all, are basically the same for everyone, hence the sameness of the kissing, although the stubble does change that a bit in a way that, dear God, it doesn’t change _this_ , and if John closes his eyes he wouldn’t know the difference at all, but he doesn’t actually want to miss out on the sight of Sherlock’s head between his legs, not even a moment of it. He wasn’t prepared for this to happen, though he thinks in retrospect that possibly Sherlock was—he did insist on certain configurations that John can now see were particularly conducive to this end. Christ, he hopes Sherlock isn’t doing this because he feels like he has to, because John isn’t about to stop him so they can have a discussion about it first. 

“Sherlock,” he gasps, writhing a bit, because actually it _is_ different, Sarah used to do this but she didn’t quite get the hang of it, really, and John was too eager and too embarrassed to really take the time and walk her through it. Sherlock, for rather obvious reasons, has a much more intuitive grip of what works and _why is he thinking so much, for fuck’s sake, just shut up and enjoy it—_

Too late, and apparently it doesn’t matter anyway. Sherlock moves away just in time, John is glad of that even as he loses himself, and when he pulls himself back together his friend is grinning at him widely, looking cheekily proud. 

“Trust Sherlock Holmes,” John says wearily, running his wrist over his damp forehead. “Yes, you were brilliant, shut up.” 

“I’m not saying anything,” Sherlock replies innocently, cozying up to John. “Anyway, you can’t make fun of me today, it’s not allowed.” 

“And why is that?” John asks, sliding his palm down Sherlock’s chest. 

“Because it’s my birthday,” Sherlock says, triumphant. 

John sits straight up. “What?” he demands. “Are you serious?” 

“January 6,” Sherlock says. “I’m sixteen.” 

“You utter prat,” John accuses. “I’d have made you a cake. I’d have bought you a present. I certainly wouldn’t have let you—do what you just did—well, not before I did it first, anyway.” 

“I wanted to,” Sherlock says unrepentantly, though he looks secretly pleased. “And anyway…” he fingers the bedspread, half coyly, half in actual shyness, “you can give me a present now, if you like.” 

John scowls at him, mostly to hide his smile. “Not what I meant. But as a matter of fact, I will.” 

He lunges, and Sherlock lets out an undignified shriek. John indulges in a small amount of tickling—Sherlock, it turns out, is _ridiculously_ ticklish—before getting down to business. 

Afterwards, he strokes Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock rests his head on John’s chest. “I, erm,” he begins. “I have to go home tomorrow, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sighs, his breath fluttering against John’s bare skin. “I know.” 

“I have to get my stuff for school. And I have to talk to my dad, I think.” 

Sherlock is silent. He runs a finger along John’s arm, down from his shoulder to his elbow and back up again. 

“Will you sleep here tonight?” he asks softly. 

John looks down at him, startled. Sherlock is studying the blankets, pushing his finger against the fine hairs on John’s forearm. 

“Yes,” John says. “Yes, I will.” 

Sherlock kisses his belly. It’s not speech, but John knows what he means anyway.

 

 

 

The following afternoon, John walks home. It’s bitter cold, so Sherlock has lent him a coat, which he wraps around himself as much for the symbolism and the smell of it as for the warmth. He _will_ stand his ground, he tells himself, he will not let his father bully him or shout abuse or…frankly, John has no idea how his father is going to react to seeing him again. He hasn’t called or texted once since John told him he wasn’t coming home, a fact which at first afforded John a great deal of relief and then began to, well, hurt a bit. He doesn’t know if his dad is giving him space in the hope that he’ll come back on his own, or if he just doesn’t care. 

He stands outside his front door for a long moment. He is not sure he’s ready for this. But it’s time, he knows it’s time—putting it off any longer will only make it harder in the long run. 

He opens the door and steps inside.

His dad is sitting at the kitchen table, slumped over the newspaper, looking shockingly old. Did he have those gray hairs at Christmas? Then he looks up, and his face goes blank. He stumbles to his feet. 

“John.” 

John just looks at him, heart in his mouth, waiting. His dad looks back, and although John has gazed into his dad’s eyes many times and seen a man he didn’t recognize, this is different. This time, John is the one who has changed. 

Things will never be the same between them, John realizes. 

“You look…all right,” his father says hesitantly. “You’re not hurt?” 

John blinks. He shakes his head. “I’m fine.” 

“That’s not your coat, is it?” 

Despite himself, John blushes faintly. “No.” 

There is a silence. 

“Term starts tomorrow,” his father says carefully. 

“I know,” John answers. He is still waiting warily for the other shoe to drop. 

“You’re going.” It’s almost a question. 

“Oh,” John says, surprised. “Yes. Of course.” 

His dad looks relieved. He clears his throat and fiddles with the newspaper. “And you’re, erm…staying?” 

How strange to be asked this question by his father. As if he is a guest in his own house. Did John make it that way, or did his dad? 

“Yes,” he says. 

His father nods. There is a long, awkward pause, and when his dad doesn’t say anything more, John turns away and goes upstairs. 

The other shoe does drop, later that day, though not in the way John expected. He’d imagined his dad drunk, angry, mean, but he hadn’t, somehow, pictured him as he is when John comes down to dinner: sober, serious, the image of the concerned father. It makes John feel uncomfortably as though he has been away for much longer than twelve days, or as if he’s returned to an alternate universe. 

“I have something to talk about,” his dad says as John and Harry begin eating. “With both of you.” 

John tenses. Harry looks warily at their father; she hasn’t spoken to John since he came home. 

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” their dad says. He sounds as though he’s about to make a business proposal. It makes John nervous. “It seems to me that things have been getting out of hand around here. And I don’t just mean—” he hesitates “—over the holiday. It’s been a long time since I’ve really been here for both of you.” 

He’s right, of course, but somehow this only increases John’s sense of foreboding. 

“I’d like to change that.” His father takes a deep breath. “I’ve joined Alcoholics Anonymous.” 

John looks at Harry, shocked. She appears as blindsided by this news as he is. 

“That’s…” John swallows. “That’s great, Dad.” 

His father nods. “I’m really trying to make some changes here. But, John, Harriet, I’m not the only one who needs to. I’m not—blaming you, either of you, but there’s been a lot of behavior happening in this house that needs to stop. Staying out till all hours—Harriet, you’ve been in the habit of that since last summer—staying away from home without permission, without telling me where you are, refusing to follow the rules I set down for you—” 

“And why should we?” Harry cuts in, eyes hard and blazing. “Where exactly do you get off telling us what to do?” 

Their father flinches. “Well,” he says evenly, “you may have a point. But I’m still your father, and like I said, I’m making some changes. And I want you both to do so, too.” 

Harry starts to retaliate, but John cuts her off. “What changes, Dad?” he asks, because something about this all feels wrong somehow—not just the sense that their father has been replaced by an alien clone, but also the words he’s saying: yes, John has been hoping for this moment for years, wishing his dad would join AA, but he’s clearly working up to something else and John has a bad feeling about it. 

“Well,” his father says, “for starters, I want you both home immediately after school, every day, no exceptions.” 

“What?” Harry explodes. “You have got to be _joking_.” 

Their father shakes his head, maddeningly calm. “No. I want you here, doing your homework, where I can see you.” 

John’s head is swimming. That means no more walks with Sherlock, no more kissing him in practice rooms until the sleek black car arrives, no more experiments in the bio lab… 

“I do extra credit stuff for Mr. Lestrade on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school,” John says quickly. “Can I still…” 

His father frowns. “Extra credit? Really? Your grades are excellent, John.” 

“Well, but…” 

“This extra credit work,” his father says, “do you perhaps do it with—with this—boy?” 

John bites the inside of his cheek and nods. 

“Well, then,” his father replies, crossing his arms, “absolutely not.” 

John’s stomach sinks like a stone. Next to him, Harry goes very still. 

“I don’t want you seeing him, John. No, listen to me. It’s isn’t that he’s—that he—look, he is clearly a bad influence. You would never have pulled that stunt before you started—before you knew him. Running away like that. No, you’re coming home right after school every day until you regain my trust.” 

The utter _irony_ , their father talking about _trust_ —John nearly gets up and walks out again, but then Harry slams her fist on the table and she is trembling with fury. 

“So I’m being punished for something John did?” 

“Harriet, you have hardly been a model of good behavior yourself—” 

“I have _two more years of school_ ,” she cries. “John is going to uni next fall. He’s almost out of here anyway. This isn’t _fair._ ” 

John feels a twist of guilt. “Harry—” 

“Shut up,” she says, turning on him. “Both of you, I hate you, I _hate_ you!” She stumbles out of her chair and storms out of the kitchen. They can hear her footsteps pounding up the stairs, and then her bedroom door slamming. 

“John,” his dad says into the silence, “thank you for being so adult about this. You’ve always been a good kid, I think you’ve just lost the path a bit these past few months—” 

John stands up. “No,” he says flatly. “I’ve only just found it.” 

He goes up to his bedroom and leaves his father sitting alone at the table, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish.

 

 

 

Sherlock is sitting at his own kitchen table, head in his hands, staring at the text from John. Straight home after school, every single day. No more bio lab. No more lengthy kisses. No sneaking off to all the ingenious locations Sherlock has been coming up with where they might do rather more than kiss. 

And Sherlock is _tired_ , besides. The last twelve days have been brilliant and terrifying and exhausting and John switches from one emotion to another so quickly, it’s impossible to keep up with him. And the sense that John is suffering, Sherlock _hates_ that, doesn’t know how to fix it, how to make it go away, and he’s very smart so he ought to be able to. But he can’t. 

There’s a noise from outside. Sherlock stiffens. The front door swings open, but it isn’t John; Sherlock knows these particular footsteps almost as well as his own. 

Mycroft places his umbrella in the stand by the door, hangs up his coat, pauses in the foyer to straighten his tie in the large ornate mirror—Sherlock can hear each of these movements as clearly as if he were seeing them. Dread pools in his stomach. 

Mycroft appears in the doorway. 

He looks at Sherlock and his eyes widen. He gazes around the room, taking in all the subtle signs and clues that Sherlock knows will tell him what happened during his absence, and then his eyes come to rest again on his younger brother. 

“Sherlock,” he says, tiny creases fanning his forehead. “Are you all right?” 

Sherlock freezes. He had expected Mycroft to be livid with anger. Instead, he looks simply—worried. 

The younger boy shakes his head mutely. Mycroft sits down in the chair across from him and surveys him with clearly genuine sympathy. 

“I take it his father found out?” 

Sherlock nods. 

Mycroft lets out a sigh. He rubs his temples, eyes flicking once more around the kitchen. 

“Your John must be rather extraordinary,” he says, and there is only the faintest trace of dry amusement in his voice. “Or extraordinarily stubborn. Two weeks is a long time to stay away from home without permission.” 

“Twelve days,” Sherlock corrects automatically. 

“I was rounding up. By the way, I am very displeased with you about Mrs. Turner,” Mycroft adds, crossing his arms. 

“John cooked,” Sherlock defends. 

“Yes, I can see that.” Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “You’ve gained two and a half pounds since Christmas. Remarkable.” 

Normally Sherlock would retaliate with a comment about Mycroft’s own physique, but there’s something about the way Mycroft says ‘remarkable’ that seems to suggest he isn’t referring to Sherlock’s weight gain. 

“The question is,” Mycroft says, his voice darkening, “what am I going to do about his father?” 

Sherlock looks up sharply. There’s a note in his brother’s voice he hasn’t heard before, and a look in his eyes—distant and cold and (Sherlock can’t help but admit) dangerous. 

“Is he violent?” Mycroft asks grimly. 

Sherlock shakes his head, watching his brother with wide, wary eyes. 

“Still, I’m sure there’s something I can rake up,” Mycroft considers, tapping his long fingernails forbiddingly against the table. “Enough to get John and his sister removed from his care, at the least.” 

Sherlock inhales sharply. This is what Mycroft is like to the rest of the world, he realizes with a shock. He’s _terrifying._

Mycroft looks at his brother, and something shakes loose in his face. “Unless,” he says, hesitating now, “you think it would be best not to.” 

“I—” Sherlock swallows. “I don’t think John would want that.” 

Mycroft nods, though he looks less than pleased. “Is there anything I can do instead, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock considers. He wonders, really for the first time, what the extent of his brother’s power is. Possibly it is far, far greater than he’d imagined. “Could you…get his father a job?” he asks tentatively. 

Mycroft frowns, and then his face softens in understanding. “Yes. Yes, that’s quite good. Give him responsibility, a purpose, get him out of the house—preferably in the immediately after-school hours, perhaps?” 

Sherlock is shocked: Mycroft is _smirking_ at him. 

“I’m sure there’s something janitorial in some government office somewhere,” Mycroft says dismissively. “I’ll sort it out.” 

“Thank you.” 

Mycroft looks startled to hear those particular words come out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock can’t really blame him. 

“You’re welcome, brother mine,” Mycroft says softly. Then he stands up and raps briskly on the table. “As for right now,” he announces, “I know exactly what you need.” 

Sherlock doubts very much that he does. “What do I need?” 

“Cake,” Mycroft declares. “Copious amounts of cake.” 

Sherlock groans.


	10. Chapter 10

John returns to Chesterton the next morning with the feeling of having been away for years. Everyone else seems so invested in it all—classes, exams, university entrances—and John was too not all that long ago, and it’s not exactly that he’s unconcerned about it now, but it feels a bit like background noise at the moment. He’s looking forward to hearing back from the schools he’s applied to, but he isn’t on the verge of a panic attack like some of his classmates. Even if he doesn’t get in, and he should, he will manage. He’ll get a job and move out of the house and reapply the following year. Because—and this is at the heart of it all—John isn’t a kid anymore, his life hanging on someone else’s decision. Not after the last two weeks. 

Which is why, when Sherlock meets him at his locker in the morning, looking nervous and talking too quickly to hide it, John simply leans over and shuts him up with a kiss. 

“Oh,” Sherlock stutters. “I—oh.” 

“Okay?” John asks firmly, and it’s not like he isn’t aware that the corridor just grew rather quieter, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock nods, blinking as if he’s just accidentally looked straight into the sun. 

It’s adorable, but also a little bit heartbreaking, so John kisses him again.

 

 

 

Sherlock’s got some sort of makeup exam to take during the lunch period—something he’d failed to show up for in December, when he was going through his bad spell—so John sits down in the cafeteria with Mike and Bill and the others. He hasn’t joined them for lunch in quite awhile, which he thinks at first is the reason they’re all staring at him bug-eyed as he sets his tray on their table, but then there’s whispering and elbowing and Bill clears his throat. 

“So, erm,” he says, eyes wandering to the other boys and then back to John, a nervous sort of smile flickering on and off his face, “is it true you’re, erm, shagging Sherlock Holmes?” 

John’s breath does something funny, then, a bit like he’s been knocked sharply on the back. His friends—are they still his friends?—are staring at him avidly, waiting for his answer. 

“Sorry,” Bill adds, laughing uncomfortably. “I drew the short straw.”

So they’ve been gossiping about him, then. John feels a knot tighten in his chest, tight and hard and unyielding and when he opens his mouth he says the only thing worse than ‘yes.’ 

“Actually, I’m dating him,” he replies, and takes a sip of milk. 

There’s a stunned silence. Then the table erupts into noise. 

“Is it true his brother’s MI6?” Charlie asks eagerly. 

“Do they really have secret government offices under their house?” 

“I heard they’re actually French,” Mike says keenly. “French nobility living in exile.” 

“What do you think this is, 1793?” Bill demands. 

“I don’t know, it’s just what I heard!” 

John listens with utter bewilderment. He looks from face to face, each of which is transformed by the news that John is in fact involved with Sherlock, but not at all in the way John expected. He hasn’t the faintest idea of what to say—not that anyone is letting him get a word in edgewise anyway. 

“Well, if they’re French, that would explain it,” Charlie reflects. 

“Explain what?” 

Charlie grins. “Why he’s such a prick!” 

The table falls abruptly silent. 

“Careful,” Bill laughs nervously. “John might punch you in the face.” 

Everybody looks at John like he could jump into action, fists flying, at any moment. 

“Ah, come off it,” John answers, dizzy with relief. “You’re a prick yourself, Charlie Rodgers.” 

Everyone relaxes. John suppresses a sudden urge to laugh.

“He is part French, actually,” he says, digging into his chips with relish. “His grandmother lived in Lyon. I think she worked in a shop, though. Printmaking or something.” 

“And his brother?” Bill asks eagerly. “ _Is_ he MI6?” 

John takes a bite of his sandwich and chews slowly. All eyes are trained on him. 

“Well,” he says, dabbing at his lips, “that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” 

The others grumble in protest. 

“So,” Mike says hesitantly, “does this mean you’re gay now?” 

John’s good humor fades a bit, but he looks carefully at Mike and there isn’t a hint of derision on his broad, open face. The others look curious, but neither scornful nor frightened. 

“I don’t think so,” he confesses, and it feels surprisingly good to talk about this. “I—still like girls, I mean.” 

“So you’re bisexual,” Mike amends.

John shrugs, considering. “I suppose. Technically. Though I don’t—it’s not really…” He bites his lip. “He—he’s the first guy I’ve ever…well, you know. I don’t know. Maybe there could be others. I don’t actually—I don’t think I actually care what I’m called.” 

Mike nods. “That’s fair.” 

“Really?” John asks, the word slipping out before he can stop himself. 

“Of course,” Mike replies immediately. “Did you think we’d—did you think we wouldn’t be okay with it?” 

John feels a flush creeping up his face. “I…” 

“Git,” Bill says matter-of-factly. “Now, can we get back to the part where his brother is a government spy?” 

“Or a _French_ spy,” Mike says, brightening. “Or a double agent—the French think he’s on their side, but really he’s on ours.” 

“This _isn’t 1814_ ,” Bill protests. “We are not at war with the French.” 

John listens to them argue, warmth spreading throughout his chest, reflecting that he’s never been so happy to have been wrong before.

 

 

 

Now that he and Sherlock aren’t hiding anymore, there’s one more person John knows he has to talk to, and he leaves lunch early because he thinks he’d better do it as soon as possible—the longer he waits, the worse it will be. 

Molly is waiting for him outside the bio room, books clasped protectively against her chest. She looks up as he approaches. Her chin rises a fraction and she surveys him with eyes half-frightened, half-resolute. 

“Molly,” he says, heart sinking. “We should—talk.” 

She nods. They go into the classroom and shut the door. As they take their usual seats, John can tell that they are both too conscious of Sherlock’s absence at the table. 

“Is it true?” she asks in a rush. “Are you and Sherlock—” 

John nods. Molly looks quickly down at her lap, her fingers tightening around the edges of her textbooks. 

“I’m sorry,” John blurts out. “I know you fancy him, Molly, and I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen—I mean I didn’t plan it, it just sort of…I didn’t know I even _could_ —I just—I’m sorry. You’ve fancied him since the beginning, and I’m sorry.” 

Molly shakes her head, brown ponytail swinging back and forth. “It isn’t that,” she says, her voice small but clear and only a little strained. “I don’t…mind that you—that you’re dating him.” The tears shining at the edges of her eyes belie this statement, but she ignores them even as a couple spill over onto her cheeks. “I mean, I know what it’s like, he’s…” She swallows. “It’s just, you didn’t—you didn’t _tell_ me. I mean, it’s been—going on for awhile, hasn’t it? Since before the holidays?” 

John swallows. “Since the end of October, actually.” 

Molly’s eyes crease shut as a look of pain flits across her face. “Right,” she says unsteadily. “Well, at least that explains why you didn’t want to hang out as much.” She gives her lap a crooked smile. “I thought you’d got bored of me.” 

A thick curl of shame expands in John’s abdomen. “Oh, God, Molly, I’m sorry, I just—I wasn’t sure _what_ was happening, to be honest with you, and I…I didn’t want to say anything if it, you know, wasn’t anything, or—I just didn’t know what was going on.” 

“But that’s, er,” Molly begins, then falters. She purses her lips and starts again. “That’s what friends do, John. They talk about things even when they haven’t sorted them all out yet. I mean, we are—I thought—we are friends, aren’t we?” 

“Yes,” John answers, feeling, if possible, even worse. “Yes, of course we are.” 

“Well,” Molly pursues doggedly, “then…you had this huge _thing_ going on, and instead of telling me you just sort of, erm—hid. I don’t—I mean, like I said, I—I know what it’s like. To…feel that way. About him. I could have, well—wouldn’t it have helped to talk about it?” 

“Oh,” John says, the realization that she is very much correct making him feel both stupid and an arse. “Yes. God, yes. And you would have—you _would_ have talked about it with me, wouldn’t you? Even though you—even though it would have hurt.” 

She nods. “I’m your friend, John. Of course.” 

He lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Molly. I shouldn’t have kept it from you. And I—I’ve been so wrapped up in my own stuff recently, I haven’t been, well, I haven’t been a very good friend to you.” He hesitates. “Could I…could I try and make it up to you? Somehow?” 

She gives him a watery smile. “Share Sherlock?” 

For a second, he thinks she is serious. Then she starts giggling, and he gives her a look of outrage. 

“Molly Hooper!” 

“Your face, John,” she laughs, brushing the wetness from her eyes. “Ha.” She hiccups a little. “You don’t have to do anything. It’s…fine, John. I’ll be fine.” 

“Of course you will,” he says, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “but I’m buying you a hot chocolate after school anyway. And you’re going to tell me all about what’s been happening in your life for the past three months.” 

She smiles, and John smiles back, but then he remembers. 

“Oh, shit,” he says. “I can’t. Molly, I’m sorry, I—I’m—” He snorts bitterly. “I’m grounded, I guess is what I am.” 

Molly’s forehead wrinkles in concern. “Because of—because of Sherlock?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” John sighs. “It’s all a bit awful, Molly, I…” The bell rings. A few seconds later, the door opens and their classmates start streaming in. John lowers his voice. “My dad’s decided he’s suddenly going to be responsible, or something, I don’t know, and I can’t tell if he means well or if he’s just being an arse. Anyway, forget it, we’ll have lunch tomorrow and you can tell me all about your holidays, okay? We don’t even have to talk about Sherlock.” 

She pats him on the arm, and somehow the gesture is genuinely comforting. “We can talk about Sherlock if you like, John, I don’t mind.” 

“What about me?” 

They turn. Sherlock is hovering behind them, looking from one to the other with a slight frown on his face. 

“Sherlock,” Molly says, turning beet red. “Hi. Er. Do you want to sit next to John? I mean, you usually do, that’s your chair, ha, I’ll just, erm, move my things…” 

“Okay,” Sherlock says, sounding puzzled. He puts a hand on John’s shoulder as he sits and Molly visibly stops herself from flinching. 

John supposes sadly that it’s going to take a little more than lunch and hot chocolate for everything to truly be okay.

 

 

 

It’s just as infuriating as John expected it to be, having to go straight home from school. 

He could ignore his father’s instructions, he supposes, but he doesn’t want to provoke a fight—he’s too tired for that, and besides, if his father was serious about everything he said during their conversation the night before—if he’s really going to AA—well, John doesn’t want to chance him changing his mind. Still, he plans to draw things out as long as possible; it takes time to get his books together, he reasons, and if he walks very fast but pretends he walked slowly, he can spend about ten minutes with Sherlock without taking too much of a risk. 

He meets Sherlock in front of his locker and gives the boy a long kiss, reveling in the fact that he _can_. Sherlock pulls back, a bit breathless, a question in his eyes. 

“Did you tell people I’m your—your boyfriend?” Sherlock asks abruptly. 

John steps back. _Oh, shit_ , he thinks, panic suddenly swelling up inside him. What on earth had he been thinking? He and Sherlock have never labeled what they’re doing, never even talked about their feelings for each other, really, and maybe Sherlock doesn’t want to be in a _relationship_ , maybe John was presuming things, so pigheadedly determined to stand up to his friends that he didn’t consider what Sherlock would think… 

“I told them we’re, erm. Dating,” John admits. “So, er…I guess I did. I—should have talked to you about it first, I’m sorry, if you want me to, er, tell them that—” 

“Are we?” Sherlock cuts him off. 

“Are we…what?” 

“Dating.” Sherlock swallows. “Am I your boyfriend?” 

John bites his lip, trying hard to read his friend’s mind. The attempt, just like every other, fails miserably. 

So he takes the plunge. “If you want to be,” he says. 

“Okay.” 

John blinks. “I—really?” 

Sherlock nods quickly. “Yes.” 

“Oh.” John laughs, feeling suddenly giddy. “Okay, then.” 

Sherlock’s smile is tentative, but behind his eyes John can see little flares of happiness bursting into light. 

“I er. Have to go,” he says, drawing in close for a kiss. 

Sherlock places his lips against John’s, his eyelashes fluttering shut. “Not for seven and a half more minutes,” he corrects. 

“That’s…true,” John says, breathing deeply. “Sherlock, I…oh.” They kiss for another long moment. “I can’t kiss you for seven and a half minutes in the middle of the corridor.” 

“Then let’s go to the broom cupboard.” 

“I’ve sort of had it with broom cupboards, if you want to know the truth.” 

“Then come outside.” 

“It’s freezing.” 

“I’ll keep you warm,” Sherlock promises, and, wonder of wonders, John believes him.

 

 

 

Harry and John arrive home at the same time, both of them flushed and breathless with hurry. Harry pointedly doesn’t look at him as she slams open the front door and stomps up the stairs to her room. John’s dad is sitting at the kitchen table; he looks wary but there’s a righteous tilt to his chin that makes John want to start shouting at him, so John passes him by in silence, too, and heads for the stairs. 

After five minutes in his bedroom he feels like banging his head against the walls. He texts Sherlock and Molly and tries to do his homework, but after almost two weeks of the freedom to do whatever he wants, this captivity is both demeaning and maddeningly dull. The only bright spot of the evening is when his father announces, very unexpectedly, that he’s been offered a janitorial job at some government office; John can’t imagine what makes him qualified for such a thing, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. At the very least, this will get his dad out of the house every day, an eventuality for which both John and the still-sulking Harry will be exceedingly grateful. 

He’s never been quite so pleased to go to school as he is the next morning. He kisses Sherlock like he’s just returned from six months at sea, leaving his friend—his _boyfriend_ —pleasingly breathless. 

“John,” he says, and then again, “ _John_ ,” and John grins to think he’s reduced Sherlock’s vocabulary to this one word so easily, but then he realizes Sherlock is holding something out to him with a desperate gleam in his eye. 

“What…” 

“Take it away. Please.” Sherlock thrusts a flat cardboard box at him. 

John backs away, eying the box with deep suspicion. “What’s in it?” 

“Please just take it,” Sherlock begs. 

John gingerly lifts the box from Sherlock hands and opens the lid. He’s expecting—oh, the remains of some experiment gone horribly wrong, maybe, or destroyed school property, or, hell, even human body parts—but not this. Definitely not this. 

“It’s…cake,” he says blankly. 

“I know it’s cake.” 

“Why are you giving me cake?” 

Sherlock exhales through his nose. John looks again at the contents of the box: six slices, each a different variety and utterly decadent, dripping with chocolate, piled with whipped cream, thick with layers of fruits and nuts. A couple have bites taken out of them and they all look just a bit the worse for wear. Still, John’s mouth waters. He looks at Sherlock questioningly. 

“Mycroft is home,” Sherlock replies. 

“Yes, you…said,” John answers, brow wrinkling with confusion. 

“When Mycroft is upset,” Sherlock explains grudgingly, “he eats cake to make himself feel better. _Obscene_ amounts of cake.” 

“And he’s upset,” John guesses, heart sinking. “Shit. About—about me staying at your house?” 

Sherlock hesitates, then shakes his head. “Shockingly, no. He—erm, he…thinks _I’m_ upset. About—you know. Everything.” 

John blinks. “So he’s giving you cake.” 

Sherlock nods. 

“That’s…” John bites his lip. “That’s actually, erm, really…nice.” 

A vein in Sherlock’s forehead twitches. “But it’s just _so much cake_ ,” he bursts out. “I’ve been taking it to my bedroom and pretending to eat it there—I scatter crumbs on the plate, rub frosting on my teeth—but I can’t get rid of it, because Mycroft has inexplicably extended Mrs. Turner’s holiday and he’s doing all the cleaning himself and he’ll see if I put it in the bin, so—please just take it, John.” 

John listens with mounting shock. Since when does Sherlock care about offending Mycroft? He’d have tossed the cake in the trash without a second thought, before. And since when does Mycroft clean house and try to cheer Sherlock up? 

Sherlock is still looking at him pleadingly. John squares his shoulders. 

“It will be a great burden,” he says solemnly, “but for you, Sherlock Holmes, I will eat this cake.” 

Sherlock gives him a suspicious look, as if he knows he’s being teased, but he looks relieved anyway. Despite the fact that it’s much too early in the morning for cake, John pulls off a bit from a particularly delectable-looking slice—he did skip breakfast, after all—with definite appreciation. 

“This looks like it’s got about six kinds of chocolate in it,” he says admiringly, popping it in his mouth. His eyes widen. 

“Holy _shit_ , Sherlock, that is the best cake I have ever tasted. Oh my God, are you sure you don’t want it?” Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “Well, your loss, then, thank Mycroft for me, will you—or don’t, if this is supposed to be a secret…” John trails off, a thought occurring to him. “Oh. Actually. Er, speaking of Mycroft…” 

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. John stashes the cake carefully in his locker, then turns back to his boyfriend, a sheepish look on his face. 

“So, I’m probably totally starkers, here—Mike and Bill rubbing off on me, ha—but, erm, is it possible that Mycroft—did he…” 

Sherlock waits. John lets out a sigh. 

“Okay, so, my dad got offered a job yesterday. As a janitor at the offices for the Department of Transportation. Supposedly his old boss, from his shipping job, recommended him, but the thing is, Dad’s never done janitorial work, and he and his boss didn’t get on, actually, and, well, it’s in a government office so I thought maybe…” He stops. Sherlock is watching him, looking faintly amused. 

“I’m being totally paranoid, aren’t I?” 

Sherlock’s tone is dry. “I have recently discovered that it is virtually impossible to be unrealistically paranoid where my brother is concerned.” 

John frowns. “So. Erm. Did—did Mycroft get my dad a job, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock sighs deeply. “I _told_ him you would be too intelligent not to figure it out.” 

John’s eyes widen. “Oh. He—oh. But, Sherlock—why?” 

“He wanted to help.” Sherlock squirms, looking hesitant. “And I—thought—this might be the best way, but if you don’t think—” 

“Wait,” John interrupts. “It was your idea?” 

Sherlock eyes him warily, then nods. 

John feels a bit gobsmacked. That Mycroft Holmes can snap his fingers and get his dad a job, and that he’d want to in the first place, and that Sherlock—well, that Sherlock— 

He grabs hold of his boyfriend and kisses him again, ignoring the lump in his throat. 

“Thanks,” he says hoarsely. “Just—you’re brilliant, you know that?” 

Sherlock smiles, but it’s not his smug one, his cheeky one, it’s flush with genuine pleasure and real happiness and it’s so beautiful John has to kiss him again.

 

 

 

He’d very much like the kissing to continue, thank you very much, but there are classes, of course, and as the end of the day draws near so does the indignity of being grounded at age seventeen. He gripes about it with Molly as they perch on a table in an empty classroom, sharing Sherlock’s cake, after being let out of their last class fifteen minutes early due to their year’s first college admissions-related breakdown. Nobody even cracked a smile when poor Percy Phelps burst into tears in the middle of working out differential equations; they were all too conscious of how easily that could have been them.

“Freaking out about uni yet?” John asks Molly, licking strawberry buttercream off a plastic fork.

She shakes her head. “Not yet. I do hope I get into somewhere in London, though.”

“Me too.” John smiles. “It’d be nice to end up at the same school. And I only applied to programs in the city, so there’s a decent chance we might.”

“That’d be wonderful.”

John frowns, remembering suddenly why he made that choice. “I did it because of my dad, you know,” he confesses. Molly’s attention sharpens; he doesn’t talk much about his father, usually, but somehow he wants to, now; somehow he finds that he can. “I thought I’d want to be around to look after him. Make sure he and Harry were getting on okay. Now I just want to get away—but I’m glad all the same.” He hesitates, not sure whether he ought to continue. “Since, well, since Sherlock has two more years at Chesterton still.”

Molly nods, betraying no sign that the mention of Sherlock upsets her. “Are you going to get your own flat?”

“Yes. God, yes, I can hardly wait. I’m planning to work all summer so I can save up. Anything to get out of the house.”

She gives him a sympathetic pat. They sit in silence for a moment, eating.

“I can’t believe he didn’t want this cake,” Molly says suddenly. “This is incredible cake.”

“It really is.”

“What kind of person doesn’t like cake?”

John shrugs. “An idiot, I suppose.”

“Or a madman,” Molly giggles.

"Well, that about sums up Sherlock, doesn’t it?”

Molly snorts. Her eyes widen. “Oh, shhh, John, he’s coming.”

They both stick large bites of cake in their mouths and attempt to look innocent.

“There you are,” Sherlock says briskly, striding into the room. “Come on, John, off to the bio lab.”

“Sherlock, I can’t, I have to go home, remember?” John asks, perturbed.

“In _ten minutes_. If we hurry, you can help me with the first test. I need someone to hold the beaker.”

John rolls his eyes. “I’m flattered, Sherlock, but I really should go.” His gaze lights on Molly, who is conspicuously not looking at them. An idea strikes him, and he hops off the table, pulling Sherlock into the corridor. “Why don’t you ask Molly?”

Sherlock looks startled. “Molly Hooper?”

“Yes, Sherlock, Jesus, the Molly who is sitting right in there, of course Molly Hooper.”

“Why would I ask Molly Hooper?”

“Well, she’d enjoy it, for starters,” John says, exasperated. “And she’d probably be better for this experiment than me—I want to be a doctor, you know, I like my human fingers to be a little more alive. She wants to work in a morgue.”

Sherlock gives him a shocked look. “Molly wants to work in a _morgue_?”

Honestly, it’s all John can do sometimes not to shake the boy. “Yes, for God’s sake, Sherlock, she talks about it all the time.”

“Well, I can’t be expected to listen, can I?” Sherlock asks, looking put out.

“No, of course not, why would I expect that,” John replies. He glances at Molly again, who is sucking on a clean fork, still looking anywhere but at them. “Ask her about the corpse she saw last summer at her gran’s in Cornwall. Washed up on the beach, apparently, not six hours after death.”

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “A corpse, you say?” he muses, eyeing Molly with deepening interest. “Well, perhaps on a trial basis.” And he hurries towards her, clutching his notebook.

"Goodbye to you, too,” John mutters good-naturedly. Molly looks overwhelmed by Sherlock’s offer, and she shoots John a grateful look as he heads down the corridor. He grins and mouths “good luck”; as he rounds the corner, he hears Sherlock say, “So what’s this about a corpse on the beach…?”

Well, even if John can’t spend a nice afternoon with his friends, they can spend one together. And he can’t wait for the stories from both of them in the morning.

It’s almost enough to cheer him up.

 

 

 

The week drags on. John’s dad starts his new job on Friday and John is looking forward to the lessened scrutiny—his dad won’t be home till eight every night and while John doesn’t usually lie about his whereabouts he has no compunction about saying he went straight home and spending time with Sherlock instead. But John’s dad springs some news on them the night before: he’s asked old Mrs. Davies from upstairs to stay with them every day till he gets home.

“That way I’ll know you’re both here the whole time,” he says self-righteously.

Harry throws an incredible temper tantrum, much of which is directed at John, and John just refuses to speak to either of them for the rest of the evening. Mrs. Davies is rather a nice old lady, even if she does smell a bit of mothballs, but John hasn’t felt so condescended to since he was actually unable to stay at home without a babysitter. She brings them biscuits on Friday, which John consumes out of politeness and which Harry refuses outright, and talks wanderingly of her cats (of which there are five) and her grandchildren (of which there are also five, all living in Wales) until 8 p.m. finally arrives, at which time she remarks that the time “just flew right by.” 

Their dad stays home with them all weekend, and Monday night is much the same as Friday, and so are Tuesday and Wednesday. John begins to think he might just lose his mind, if only because it’s so stuffed full of the Davies family tree that there’s no room for anything else. Harry is also becoming unbearable; she stomps around the house, shooting John murderous glances, as if this is all his fault. He’d be angrier with her if she weren’t so clearly utterly miserable. Despite everything, he can’t help but worry about her, so on Thursday afternoon he corners her on the way home. 

“Listen, Harry—” 

“What do you want, John?” she asks, flinging the words at him like weapons. 

He shuts his eyes briefly, summoning patience. “Nothing. For goodness’ sake. I’ve just had a thought.” 

“Amazing.” 

“Just listen to me for a minute, would you?” he snaps. 

She keeps glaring but shuts up. 

“So. I’ve been thinking about our situation. Mrs. Davies, and all that. And the thing is, well—Dad doesn’t know you’re gay.” 

She bristles. “And it’s going to stay that way till I’m eighty, thanks very much.” 

“Yes, fine, but my point is, he doesn’t know Clara is anything but your friend. I think he even likes her, she helped shovel our walk a few times last winter, remember?” 

“So what?” 

“Well,” John says, “instead of thinking of ways to sneak out of the house—don’t look at me like that, I’m not an idiot—why not just think of ways to sneak her in?” 

Harry looks taken aback. “What do you mean?” 

“Just ask Dad if she can come over. Tell him you’re working on a project together. You guys can go up to your room—I’ll babysit Mrs. Davies for the night.” 

She stares at him. “You—you’d do that?” 

John nods. 

“Well…” She swallows convulsively, her eyes flicking away. “I…I’ll think about it.” 

John supposes that’s about as good as it’s going to get. But the next day, Harry asks their dad about bringing Clara home and, presumably pleased that Harry is showing an interest in schoolwork and also not shouting at him, he happily agrees. That afternoon, John settles in for a long chat about knitting with Mrs. Davies, the girls safely ensconced in Harry’s room. 

Around five, Clara appears in the sitting room doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” she smiles. “Can I borrow you for a minute, John? Harry’s sent me to make tea but I can’t find the kettle.” 

“Yeah, of course,” John replies immediately, glad of the break. He goes with Clara into the kitchen. “The kettle is—” 

“Thank you,” Clara interrupts, standing on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. John blinks at her, shocked. 

“Oh. Well, um, sure,” he stammers. 

“We both know Harry would never say it,” Clara says, leaning back against the counter, “but she’s grateful. So am I. I only wish we could do the same for you and Sherlock.” 

John’s dad would have a fit if Sherlock got within two miles of their house. John smiles wryly. “I wish you could, too.” 

“Seriously, if there’s anything we can do to help, let me know,” Clara presses. “We’ll be there. That’s a promise.” 

John raises an eyebrow, though he feels warmth spreading through his chest at her words. “Really?” he says skeptically. “Harry too?” 

“Oh, yes,” Clara vows, “if I have to drag her kicking and screaming.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s managed to make Harry do something she didn’t want to since primary school.” 

Clara grins wickedly. “Oh, but you haven’t seen me at work.” 

John snorts, startled. “Ha. Well, thanks, Clara. I mean it.” 

“Thank you, John,” she says. “We have to stick together, you know what I mean?” 

He’s beginning to. He nods. 

“You’re a good big brother.” 

For some reason, he flushes. Maybe because he hasn’t heard that since Harry was in primary school, either. “Well, er,” he stammers. “I—thanks. Oh! The erm, the kettle, it’s—” 

“I think I can find the kettle, John,” Clara replies drily. 

“Ah. Yes. I’ll just—back to talking about cats, then,” he says hurriedly, and makes his exit. 

Mrs. Davies eyes him curiously when he returns. He wonders what exactly is showing on his face. He attempts to rearrange his features into some semblance of normality, but this seems to only increase her suspicions. 

“John,” she says, her voice unexpectedly gentle, “why doesn’t your father trust you and Harry to be home alone?” 

John coughs, uncertain how to respond. “Well, actually, he doesn’t trust us to come home and stay home,” he clarifies. 

She purses her lips. “I don’t understand. Your sister, maybe—she’s a bit of a firecracker—but you seem like such a nice, steady boy.” 

John sighs. He thinks about lying, but he doesn’t really have the energy. “I sort of—ran away from home.” 

Her thin white eyebrows flutter upwards. “Do they still call it that, at your age?” 

“Well. Ha. I…stayed out, then. For a couple of weeks, over the holiday. I just…couldn’t be at home anymore.” 

“Because of your father’s drinking?” 

John stiffens automatically—he’s not used to people speaking overtly about his dad’s problem—but her tone is sympathetic and free of judgment and he’s past denying it, anyway. 

“Not really,” he admits. “I, erm. I’ve been…” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been seeing this boy. And Dad doesn’t approve.” 

He stares at his knees as he says it, but his voice doesn’t waver. After a moment, he looks up to find Mrs. Davies’ face wide with dismay. 

“I had no idea!” she exclaims. “I would _not_ have agreed to do this if I’d known.” John’s heart sinks; her disapproval isn’t unexpected but it still stings. 

“I’m so sorry, John,” she says, and he looks up in surprise. “I didn’t know. I thought maybe you and your sister were having trouble in school, and he wanted to make sure you did your homework. You poor dear.” 

“Oh,” is all he can think to say. 

“I will be having words with your father when he comes home tonight,” she says, wagging her finger. She looks so tiny, and old, and _fierce_. “And I won’t be doing this for him again, mind you.” 

“I…thank you.” John’s voice is wavering and he can’t make it stop. “That’s…I…” 

“Oh, come here,” Mrs. Davies flutters. She pulls John in for a hug. He buries his face in her shoulder, sinking into the comforting smell of mothballs and milky tea and the warmth of her frail, strong frame. He doesn’t know how she can be both at once, but she is, and John realizes that’s how he feels—like a touch could shatter him, but also as unassailable as a tree bending in a storm. He’s breakable, and invincible, and the paradox is exhausting. So he lets Mrs. Davies hug him as long as she wants. 

“I’ll talk to your father on one condition,” she says suddenly, pulling back, grasping him lightly by the shoulders. 

John feels a flicker of anxiety. “Yes?” 

“That you bring your young man over for tea one day,” she says. Her face is stern but her eyes are twinkling. “I make a mean pound cake. Teenage boys can’t resist my pound cake.” 

John actually almost chokes up, he actually almost starts crying, but then the words sink in— _pound cake_ —and he has to fight a mad impulse to burst out laughing. 

“He’ll love that,” John promises. “He loves cake, Sherlock. He really does.” 

Sherlock will forgive him, he thinks. It’s worth it to see Mrs. Davies smile like that.

 

 

 

And suddenly, John has friends. More than friends—allies. He knows that’s a word people use, an accepted term for what Molly and Mycroft and Clara and Mrs. Davies and Mrs. Hudson (who beams whenever she sees them together in the corridors) have become, but now he finally understands why. Because _allegiance_ is something different from friendship, from tolerance, from indifference. Because it’s a promise, a pledge. Because sometimes this is a battle, however much John wishes it weren’t, and he’s got people on his side. 

His dad is almost violently angry after his conversation with Mrs. Davies. He shouts at John for turning her against him, and at Harry just for being there. He smashes a plate on the ground, and he kicks the wall, and John seriously considers walking out again. 

But Harry darts a glance at him, frightened, and he’s not leaving her alone. 

So he takes them both upstairs, and leaves their dad to shout at the air, and he gives Harry a hug before she can protest. He’s only passing it on, anyway. 

And in the morning, when their dad grimly tells them they’d better be home straight away after school and stay there, they both lie and say they will, and John feels a rush of guilt and shame. And it’s horrible, because he shouldn’t have to lie to his dad, and he shouldn’t feel guilty when he does, not this time. But it’s also something he can bear. Because he doesn’t have to bear it alone. 

He goes to school, where his friends are waiting for him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the long wait!

For a little while, things are all right. Now that John feels like he’s not alone, and now that he and Sherlock have more or less clarified what is between them, the little voices of fear and doubt that used to whisper constantly in his ear about _what the hell do you think you’re doing, John Watson_ have all but gone. His relationship with his dad is crap, but it’s bearable and soon enough John will be out of the house. At some point, he knows, Sherlock’s mood will swing towards black again, but it hasn’t yet and at the moment Sherlock is as happy as John has ever seen him. John is beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, they’ll both make it through the school year more or less intact. 

Later, after everything’s gone horribly pear-shaped, John decides that was just about the stupidest thought he could have had.

It starts when Soo Lin Yao, a classmate of Harry’s, breaks all the beakers in the bio lab one morning before school—or at least, it certainly looks like she’s done it, as she’s found kneeling on the floor amidst shards of broken glass when Lestrade walks in that day. When John and Sherlock show up for class (fifteen minutes early, as Sherlock has an experiment he wants to check on), the door is half-open and through it they can see the headmaster, Mr. Yardley, and Lestrade standing over Soo Lin, who is weeping quietly and mumbling over and over that she isn’t to blame. 

“Wait in my office, young lady,” John hears the headmaster say sternly as he and Sherlock peer covertly into the room. “I want a word with Professor Lestrade.”

Soo Lin Yao hurries past them, almost knocking into John as she runs out of the room, still crying. The door swings open and Sherlock looks in, not even bothering to hide his interest. His breath catches. 

“She didn’t do it,” he mutters, and then, before John has a chance to grab him, he strides into the classroom. 

“This is Jim Moriarty’s doing,” he announces. The headmaster and Lestrade look up, startled. John is caught in their gaze, too, standing in the open doorway.

“Mr. Holmes,” the headmaster says, not sounding pleased. John knows he’s had some difficulties with Sherlock before, when Sherlock was going through his bad period and skipping class, and his heart sinks. “Why are you here?” 

“We have bio first period,” John explains, stepping into the room. “Sorry, we’ll just wait outside—” 

“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock insists. “He did this.” 

Lestrade’s face creases with puzzlement. Mr. Yardley’s darkens. John looks at Sherlock, worried. 

“That’s quite an accusation, Mr. Holmes,” the headmaster says, “especially given that Ms. Yao was found with a beaker in her hand in this very room.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, no, she couldn’t have done it. The culprit wore latex gloves, see? There’s a used pair in that bin, which gets emptied every night, so they’re fresh from this morning, and you can see the box is on that table instead of where it should be, in the cupboard.” 

“So?” Mr. Yardely asks impatiently. 

“Soo Lin Yao has a latex allergy.” 

There’s a startled silence. John, personally, has no idea how Sherlock knows this about Soo Lin Yao, but— 

“He’s right,” Lestrade says, sounding baffled. “She does. She uses the latex-free gloves in class.” 

Mr. Yardley purses his lips. “That’s as may be, but what’s this about Mr. Moriarty? What proof do you have that he’s responsible?” 

Sherlock pauses, and John’s chest gets that tingly feeling it does whenever Sherlock’s about to make a brilliant deduction. He waits for something about shoelaces or schedules or specks of lint, but then Sherlock looks over at him, hesitant, and John’s stomach drops. 

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock says with difficulty. “But if you let me look around for fifteen minutes—” 

“Certainly not,” the headmaster replies, affronted. “What on earth would make you think I would allow that?” 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, “why do you think Jim Moriarty did this?” 

Sherlock hesitates. He looks at John. “Because he—he’s done something like this before,” Sherlock says carefully. 

“What was it?” Lestrade asks, frowning. 

“I can’t…” Sherlock pulls at his dark curls, looking unhappy. John knows how he feels: they can’t tell the adults that Moriarty framed Carl Powers for shoplifting, any more than they could when it happened, because that would get Powers into even worse trouble, giving what he was actually doing at the time. But without that information, there’s no chance the headmaster will believe them. Of course, it’s not as if John really knows Sherlock is right about Moriarty’s involvement—he could just be paranoid. 

But on the other hand, he could be right. He usually is. 

“I can’t tell you,” Sherlock finishes miserably. 

The headmaster’s lip curls. “Indeed. Then I would be very careful before making such accusations in the future, Mr. Holmes. Schoolboy grudges are not an excuse for trying to get your classmates in trouble. Now, Ms. Yao is waiting for me in my office, so I must go. And as a reminder to watch what you say, you and your friend Mr. Watson here can clean up this mess.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest and John steps hard on his toe. Lestrade clears his throat. 

“What about the latex, Richard?” he asks Yardley. “She couldn’t have done it.” 

The headmaster looks stymied. “Well,” he says guardedly, “perhaps.” And he sweeps out of the room. 

Lestrade leans back against his desk, surveying the broken glass on the floor and then looking at Sherlock and John with the same intent frown on his face. 

“All right, boys,” he says. “Out with it.” 

Sherlock and John exchange a look. 

“We really can’t,” John answers reluctantly. “I’m sorry.” 

Lestrade lets out a huff of breath. “Well, I’m sure you have your reasons,” he says. “You really think Jim Moriarty is responsible?” 

Sherlock nods. “I don’t think he broke the equipment himself. But he probably got someone else to do it.” 

“Why?” 

“My guess is that somebody asked him to. Someone who has a grudge against Soo Lin.” 

Lestrade shakes his head tiredly. “Oh, Sherlock, you know that sounds mad, right?” He rubs his face. “Actually, would you two mind cleaning this up? I’m not punishing you, I just need to do a couple things before class.” 

John gives his professor a closer look, struck suddenly by how tired he appears. Did he always have such deep bags under his eyes? 

“Of course,” John replies. “I’ll get brooms.” 

Lestrade nods. “Thanks. I…look, I’ll keep an eye out, okay?” He looks at Sherlock. “I heard what you said, even if the headmaster didn’t.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker with surprise. He nods guardedly. 

“Okay.” 

John gets brooms, and they sweep up. He knows Sherlock is itching to examine the room, but Lestrade is there at his desk and they haven’t time, anyway—he can hear their classmates congregating outside, ready to come in as soon as the room is clean. So he and Sherlock hurriedly push broken glass into the dustpan and John has this funny flicker of foreboding, like maybe this isn’t the only thing that’s going to get broken in the near future.

 

 

 

Soo Lin Yao is absolved of the blame for the incident, or at least of the punishment. It seems the latex gloves put too big of a question mark around the whole thing to set her down as responsible beyond reasonable doubt. There’s a lot of gossip about what happened, after the headmaster addresses the entire school very sternly on the subject of damaging school property, but miraculously, Sherlock and John’s presence on the scene appears to have gone unnoticed. 

Except by one person. At the end of the day, after Soo Lin Yao has been definitively pardoned, Sherlock and John are walking hand in hand down the crowded corridor when a voice sounds softly in their ears, so quiet and menacing that it sends shivers up John’s spine. 

“You’ve spoiled my fun,” Jim Moriarty complains, and John and Sherlock whirl around, but he’s already separated from them by a gaggle of chattering second-years. “You’ll be sorry, Sherlock Holmes,” he calls out in a singsong voice, and then disappears around the corner. 

John’s hackles rise, but when he looks at Sherlock to share his anger, the boy has gone even paler than usual.

“Sherlock,” John says, grabbing his boyfriend’s wrist, “it’s fine. He’s just a stupid little bastard.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly, “that’s where you’re wrong.” He gazes in the direction of where Moriarty disappeared, eyebrows drawn in and eyes distant. “He’s a _clever_ little bastard.”

 

 

 

And the next morning, Sherlock is proved horribly right. 

John can tell something is wrong as soon as he walks onto campus. There are groups of students standing around outside, as there always are, but the groups are all wrong: third-years with first-years, sixth-years with fourth-years, football players with drama geeks and enemies murmuring amongst each other, all grudges temporarily suspended. And there are too many of them, student upon student spilling out onto the sidewalks as they whisper and shout and stare avidly at the school building. 

Chesterton’s doors are wide open, and its windows, as John watches, are being flung open one by one. He hears the sound of a siren and realizes with a shock that there’s a fire truck parked out back and another one on its way. 

“Molly!” John hurries to where his friend is standing open-mouthed, staring at the proceedings. “What’s going on?” 

“Some sort of gas explosion, I think? Or some chemical thing?” she replies, biting her nail. “I don’t know. They’re airing out the school.” 

“Is anyone inside? Other than the firefighters?” 

She looks at him anxiously. “John, I—have you seen Sherlock?” 

John’s world spins. He stumbles backwards dizzily and Molly shoots out an arm to grab his wrist. “Hey,” she says, “hey, John, no, I’m sorry, forget I said anything, I’m sure he’s just late—” 

But at that moment, a figure hurtles through the open doors of the school, stumbling to a halt outside as all eyes turn to look. A mess of dark hair, goggles from the chem lab, a paper mask over his mouth, and an empty packet clutched in his hand— _Sherlock_. 

The boy looks around at the students and teachers who have all stopped to stare at him. His bearing is hesitant, confused; he holds up the packet and glances at it for a long moment, as if reading what it says for the first time. The part of John that isn’t helplessly frozen—turned to glass or stone or crystal or shards of ice—notes that it looks like the kind of packet that holds the solid forms of chemicals they use sometimes in chem class, little rocklike nuggets that produce smoke or smells or purple flames when heated up or mixed with something else. Understanding—giant and terrible—begins to overtake him, and then Sherlock sways, staggers. His knees crumple beneath him and he collapses on the concrete. 

Uproar ensues. Shrieking and running and shouts of “stay back,” and John’s world has gone all funny, tilting and shifting like a funhouse mirror as he runs toward Sherlock, stumbling over backpacks and bumping into elbows. Someone is calling “Sherlock” over and over again and eventually he realizes it’s him. But as he finally claws his way to the front of the pack, the paramedics rush in, blocking the way to Sherlock. 

“John. John. _John_.” Strong, firm hands are holding him back. John fights, kicks, and the person lets out a startled gasp of pain but doesn’t let go. “John. They’re helping him. The best thing you can do is let them help him.” 

The sense of these words slowly seeps into John’s consciousness and he sags, all the fight draining abruptly away. The hands on his arms tighten, and John manages to stay on his feet. He looks blearily around to see who it is. 

“Professor Lestrade,” he says. His head is still whirling, confused. “Sherlock—” 

“It looks like he inhaled some of the fumes,” Lestrade says steadily. “He was in there awhile. But he had a mask on, John, he’ll be fine. Anyway, the stuff’s not lethal, apparently, just—not nice.” 

John lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His head swims dizzily and he cranes his neck around the paramedics’ backs to look at Sherlock. The boy is pale, inert, but obviously breathing. One of the paramedics puts an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and Sherlock twitches, inhaling deeply even as he remains unconscious. 

John keeps one eye on his boyfriend as he turns back to Lestrade. “But—how—what was he doing in there?” 

Lestrade is silent. This worries John almost as much as Sherlock’s physical state. He whips his head around to stare at his bio teacher fully, shaking loose from the man’s firm grasp. 

“What was Sherlock doing inside?” 

Lestrade sighs. “John, I…I don’t know. I hope there’s some explanation. Maybe he thought he could stop it, I don’t know, but—you know what it looks like, don’t you?” 

John is shaking his head. “No. No. He is _not_ responsible for this.” 

“I don’t think he is either. But, John, why was he here early? Why was he wearing goggles and a mask? Why—” 

“He’s awake!” one of the paramedics calls out. “Stand back, please!” 

Everybody swarms backwards as Sherlock is lifted onto a stretcher, and as the paramedics carry him towards the waiting ambulance, John catches his eye. He looks tiny, and _terrified._

“Let me come with him,” John says in a rush. “Please, he can’t go alone, let me—” 

“Sorry, mate, family only,” one of the paramedics grunts out. 

“But his family isn’t here—” 

A hand on his arm again. Lestrade. 

“John, I think they are.” He points to a sleek black car that’s just pulled up along the curb, and the man emerging from it. Mycroft Holmes hurries through the crowds that part for him like waves, somehow sensing that here is a man not to be toyed with. Mycroft is as pale as his brother and he looks shockingly undone: tie askew, hair mussed, cuffs unbuttoned. He waves aside the headmaster, who is approaching the scene with a black look on his face, and the paramedics flit aside like leaves in the wind to allow Mycroft to climb into the back of the ambulance. John’s last glimpse of Sherlock is of one pale hand clutched tightly in his brother’s, and Mycroft bending over too smooth back a lock of dark hair. 

The ambulance whizzes off, and John stands there, bereft, and then, across the crowd, he catches sight of Jim Moriarty, looking after Sherlock with a satisfied smirk on his face. 

John fills with overwhelming rage, a swirling maelstrom of anger so strong his vision goes briefly white; and then he thinks of how it would sound to the headmaster if he accused Moriarty of framing Sherlock, after the business with Soo Lin, and his outrage is suddenly injected with a shot of pure, blinding fear, and the subtler, more sinister darkness of deep foreboding.

 

 

 

School is cancelled for the day so the building can be aired out. John is damned if he’s going to sit at home while Sherlock is ill, so he figures out which hospital his friend was taken to and resolves to beg or bully his way into his room. Rather to his relief, Molly insists upon accompanying him. 

“Worse comes to worse, I can do a really good impression of a waterworks,” she says, smiling a bit, though her eyes are in fact a bit damp. “It’s ridiculous, really, how much easier it is for girls to get what we want when we cry about it.” 

But even Molly’s tears don’t gain them access to Sherlock’s hospital room. The staff at the desk are adamant that he is not to be disturbed; John suspects that their nearly fanatical adherence to hospital procedure has its origins in Mycroft Holmes. He and Molly stubbornly take up residence in the waiting room; an occasional tear—probably not feigned—leaks from Molly’s eyes, and the churning anxiety in his own gut causes him to leap up every few minutes and pace furiously around the room. He remembers Lestrade’s assurance that the substance Sherlock inhaled wasn’t lethal, but the boy looked so pale, so ill, and John can’t stop remembering how Sherlock’s knees gave out so suddenly as he collapsed on the pavement. 

After a couple hours, a sympathetic nurse takes pity on them. 

“Look,” he says, stopping by their chairs on the way back from filling out some paperwork. “You’re not going to be able to see your friend, but I promise, he’s fine. He’s breathing on his own and everything. His brother is insisting we keep him here for the rest of the day for observation, and that no visitors are allowed to disturb his rest, but he’ll be released tonight. You two should go home and get some rest yourselves. You look like you could use it.” 

“You’re sure?” John can’t stop the words from spilling too quickly out of his mouth. 

“Positive. He’s fine. That stuff he inhaled has a nasty effect at first, but it wears off quickly. He was never in any serious danger.” 

John sags with relief. And it _is_ a relief, of course, but as soon as he’s home—Molly in tow, as neither of them really wants to be alone—the worry starts to creep back in. Jim Moriarty isn’t insane or homicidal, that’s good, but he is obviously a manipulative little creep. He’s managed, somehow, to set Sherlock up, to make it look as though he’s responsible for flooding the school with dangerous chemicals—stopping short of harming anyone, but ensuring that the consequences, should Sherlock receive the blame, will be dire. 

John and Molly watch bad telly all day and John tries not to think about what’s going to happen when they go back to school. Molly leaves, and John calls Sherlock, once every hour, until midnight, but he never answers. John tells himself it’s because he’s asleep, or because Mycroft has confiscated his phone. 

What if Mycroft believes Sherlock is to blame? John remembers Sherlock telling him that Mycroft threatened to send him to boarding school in France if Chesterton didn’t work out. 

John doesn’t sleep very well that night.

 

 

 

School is back on the next morning, and John gets there early to wait for Sherlock. He can only hope his boyfriend will show up, as he hasn’t managed to get in touch with him. He tries not to worry about the lack of contact. He tries not to be angry about it. He tries to stay calm.

He doesn’t feel calm, though, when the usual black car pulls up to deliver Sherlock to school. John leaps to his feet, his heart suddenly attempting to escape his chest, and hurries toward his boyfriend. He half expects Mycroft to be looming over him like a protective bat, but Sherlock is alone. 

“Oh, god, you’re okay,” John says, relief overwhelming all other considerations as he hurries toward Sherlock and pulls him into a crushing hug. The boy goes limp in John’s arms for a moment, burying his face in John’s shoulder and breathing deeply, and then he stiffens and pulls abruptly away. His sudden absence feels wrong, like the severing of a limb. 

“Sherlock,” John falters, “what…what happened?” 

Sherlock purses his lips and shakes his head, not looking John in the eye. 

John grabs his elbow. “Hey. Talk to me. How did Moriarty set you up? Did he lure you in there, somehow? Did he swap out chemicals you were using for an experiment? Did he—”

Sherlock’s head moves with a sudden painful jerk. He catches John’s gaze and in his eyes John can see dark clouds brewing, the same distant sort of bleakness that characterizes Sherlock’s bad periods, only sharper this time, more like a knife edge than a dull blade. 

“Shit,” John says, his grip on Sherlock’s arm tightening. “Sherlock, it’s going to be okay.” 

“I have to see the headmaster,” Sherlock says flatly. 

John’s stomach dips woozily. “Now?” 

Sherlock nods. 

John takes a breath. “Where’s Mycroft? Isn’t he coming with you?” 

Sherlock hesitates. His eyes shift away. “He had something urgent to take care of,” he mumbles. “Some sort of international crisis.” 

“So he left you to deal with this alone?” John demands, swelling with outrage. 

“The government can’t run without Mycroft Holmes,” Sherlock replies, staring at the ground. “It’s fine.” 

“No, it bloody well isn’t,” John asserts angrily. “I’m coming with you, then.” 

Sherlock looks up, alarmed. “You can’t.” 

“Yes I can.” 

“John…” 

“Damn it, Sherlock, I’m not leaving you alone. Not when you’re like this.” 

Sherlock’s face goes tight, and John feels suddenly nervous. 

“Like what?” Sherlock asks coldly. 

“Like…when you’re…you’re not all right, Sherlock,” John fumbles. 

Sherlock turns away, striding towards the school’s entrance. “I don’t need a babysitter, John.” 

John squeezes his fists, fighting back anger and guilt. “I just want to—to look out for you.” 

“I don’t need a guard dog, either.” 

“Jesus, Sherlock, would you listen to me—”

He stops short as they reach the headmaster’s office. Mrs. Hudson is at her desk, and Mr. Yardley is murmuring something to her, his expression very serious. She appears flustered, her eyes bright. They both look up when Sherlock and John approach. Everybody stops for a long moment, and nobody speaks. 

“Mr. Holmes,” the headmaster says, the coldness in his voice sending chills down John’s spine. “Come in.” 

Sherlock holds back for a moment, and John can feel trepidation radiating off him in waves. Then Sherlock steps forward. John follows. 

“Mr. Watson,” Mr. Yardley says sharply. “What exactly are you doing here?” 

John swallows. “I, er—” 

“Troublemakers do often come in pairs,” Mr. Yardley reflects, fixing his eyes beadily on John, who feels suddenly like a bug about to be pinned to the wall. “And you two seem quite inseparable.” 

John moves instinctively towards Sherlock. _A united front_ , he thinks belligerently, and then he’s suddenly too close, his hand almost brushing the other boy’s. 

“Funny how you always seem to turn up whenever Mr. Holmes is in an— _unusual_ situation,” Mr. Yardley says. “Why is that, I wonder?” He studies them, and god, John can’t tell if the headmaster’s eyes really flash with disgust, if his lips really curl ever so slightly as he notes their nearly-touching hands, but suddenly John’s heart is hammering and his palms are sweaty and the thing he should do, that he wants to do—grabbing Sherlock’s hand and staring up at the headmaster defiantly, standing by his boyfriend— _a united front_ —turns monstrously, impossibly frightening, and John, much to his horror, finds himself giving in to his instinct to _run, run, run_ and he steps abruptly away from Sherlock, panic rising in his throat. 

“I, erm, I, er—” 

“Leave this office, Mr. Watson,” the headmaster says calmly, “or you’ll find yourself in serious trouble, too.” 

And heaven help him, John Watson bolts.

 

 

 

He doesn’t make it far. There’s an odd little nook outside a nearby practice room where music students sit and wait for lessons and he sinks down into it, ignoring the chair in favor of curling his knees to his chest and burying his head between them. Guilt is churning thickly in his stomach. He’s a failure, an utter failure as a human being for leaving Sherlock like that. He’d thought he was _over this_ , over the fear and the shame: he sticks up to his dad, he calls Sherlock his boyfriend, he kisses him in the middle of the corridors, for goodness’ sake—and then comes one look of scorn from the headmaster, one look he might have only even _imagined_ , and the panic flares up hot and bright again. 

And now Sherlock is in there, alone, and god knows what is going to happen to him. 

“John?” 

He looks up to find Mrs. Hudson standing above him, an anxious look on her face and a cup of steaming tea in her hand. 

“I thought maybe you’d like a cuppa, dear.” 

John swallows and lifts himself awkwardly off the floor and into the chair, accepting the tea. “Er. Thanks.” 

He sips it gingerly as Mrs. Hudson continues to stare at him in obvious worry. 

“He didn’t do it,” John bursts out suddenly. 

“Oh, love, of course he didn’t,” Mrs. Hudson clucks sympathetically. She drags a chair out of the empty practice room and sits, patting John on the knee. “Of course he didn’t.” 

John breathes a small sigh of relief. That’s one person who believes him, anyway. 

“John,” Mrs. Hudson asks hesitantly, “what does that boy Jim Moriarty have to do with all this?” 

John stiffens. He looks at her, wary. “Why?” 

“Well—oh dear, I shouldn’t be telling you this—he was in Mr. Yardley’s office this morning. I could hear them through the door—he was crying.” 

John goes cold. 

“He seemed to be saying that…well…” Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands. “That Sherlock has been _bullying_ him. Rather badly.” 

“No,” John says, heart pounding. “No, no, oh god, that isn’t true.” 

“Well, I didn’t think it was! Sherlock isn’t always—oh dear, he isn’t always very polite, but he’s not _malicious_ , he wouldn’t target anyone like that…” 

“No.” John breathes in deeply. He can imagine the scene: pasty little Moriarty weeping pathetically, protesting that  _he doesn’t know why Sherlock has it out for him, but he always has, first accusing him of framing Soo Lin, and he’s sure that Sherlock will try and blame him for this, too…_

“Why would the headmaster believe him?” John bursts out. 

Mrs. Hudson’s face crumples. “Oh, John, you know Sherlock, he comes off as so rude sometimes, and—well—he’s had those bad spells…” 

John’s head shoots up. “Being depressed isn’t the same thing as wanting to _fill the school with dangerous chemicals_.” 

“No, no, I know it isn’t…” 

She looks so distraught that John manages to curb his anger a little. It’s not Mrs. Hudson’s fault, after all. 

“What’s going to happen to him?” he asks wearily, his stomach churning painfully with anxiety. 

“He’s—oh, I _really_ shouldn’t be telling you this—Mr. Yardley wants him to confess.” 

“And—and if he does? What then?” 

“He’ll be expelled,” Mrs. Hudson says miserably. 

John’s breath hitches. He tries not to panic. “And—if he doesn’t?” 

“The headmaster will open a police investigation into the incident.” 

John presses his fingers to his forehead. “Okay. Okay. Well, that’s—that’s okay, isn’t it, they’ll find out Sherlock didn’t do it.” 

“But…” Mrs. Hudson’s voice is small. “If they don’t, John, if they think he did—it’ll go on his permanent record. Damage of school property. Endangerment of the student body. Oh dear…” 

John shakes his head violently. He stands up. “No. That’s not going to happen. Sherlock won’t confess, because he _didn’t do it_. And he won’t get in trouble, because he _didn’t do it_. He’ll—he’s brilliant, you know, he’ll find some way to prove he’s innocent. He will, he _will_.”

He’s breathing heavily. His fists are clenched tight, fingernails digging into his palms. Mrs. Hudson looks taken aback, but also mildly reassured. She’s wrong, though. John doesn’t sound so defiant, so certain, because he really believes what he’s saying. He always did underestimate Jim Moriarty, in the past. 

“I have to talk to Sherlock,” he says, and sets off furiously in the direction of the headmaster’s office. 

There’s got to be something he can do, that they can do. Maybe Professor Lestrade can help, maybe Mycroft—he’s got power, John knows, maybe he can just make this all disappear—and if Sherlock is too proud or too despairing to ask him then John will do it—if they just _stick together_ — 

But when John gets to the headmaster’s office, Sherlock is gone. 

John dashes to the boy’s locker. Nothing. He hurries outside, but no sleek black car is waiting there. He runs to the back of the gym, but Sherlock isn’t there either. 

He calls Sherlock’s phone. Nothing. 

John trudges back out to the front of the school and stares at the low wall, where the two of them once shared a cigarette in the middle of the night. There’s nobody sitting there now. In fact, there’s no one around at all, save for the occasional rush of a passing car, there and then gone. 

Fear curdles, thick and dense, in John’s stomach, and he feels suddenly, swiftly, very much alone.

 

 

 

Sherlock leaves the headmaster’s office and makes his way to the roof. 

Jim Moriarty sent him a text the night before, when got home from hospital, to meet him there after he sees the headmaster. Sherlock knows, with a certainty that sits like concrete in his gut, that this is _very bad news_. It’s been weighing on him all morning, twisting his conversation with John into something rather more combative than he’d intended—as has the fact that Moriarty’s message ended with the words, _This is our little secret! (:_

Sherlock never knew that smiley faces could be so sinister. 

Jim Moriarty is standing next to a giant heating unit, which whirs and hums loudly, grating on Sherlock’s ears. It’s bitter cold up here, but that’s incidental, unimportant, as the weather so often is. Sherlock can feel himself detaching, growing distant from the world, like he does when his black moods come upon him. Except he does _care_ , right now; instead of a bleak endless expanse of meaningless, he sees himself drifting helplessly away from the things that have somehow begun to _matter_ —John, John, John Watson above all. 

“You’ve been naughty, Sherlock Holmes,” Jim Moriarty says, not turning to face him. “Bullying a poor helpless boy like that. It’s no wonder the headmaster doesn’t trust you.” 

Sherlock says nothing. The headmaster’s accusations that he’s been systematically targeting Jim Moriarty out of pure spite went down like a bitter drink, no less horrible for the fact that he’s the one who opened his mouth to swallow in the first place. Because he did set himself up for this: he blamed Moriarty for the broken beakers in the bio lab, even though he had no concrete proof yet—and of course it seemed like a baseless accusation, a malicious stab at an innocent classmate. That’ll teach him to theorize in advance of the facts. Now if he accuses Moriarty of framing him for the debacle with the chemicals—which of course he _did_ , luring Sherlock to the lab early that morning with an email sent from Professor Gregson’s email account (hacked, obviously) requesting his help with an experiment—it’ll seem even less believable, even more spiteful. 

“I take it the headmaster gave you his ultimatum,” Moriarty continues casually. “Confess and be expelled, or let him open a police investigation. That was me, you know. The headmaster was all for calling in the police regardless, but I said I didn’t want him to, I didn’t want to _punish_ you—I just want you to own up to what you’ve done.” He turns, finally, to face Sherlock. His eyes are dark, burning. “And I want you _gone._ ” 

Sherlock swallows. “The police will find out it wasn’t me,” he states with more conviction than he feels. “They’ll figure out the truth.” 

“Will they?” A little smile haunts Moriarty’s face. “Such faith in the establishment, Sherlock, I’m surprised. Not that it matters. They might find out what really happened, they might not, but they’ll never get a chance to look. Because you’re going to confess.” 

Sherlock’s lip curls. “And why would I do that?” 

“Hmmm, why _would_ Sherlock Holmes do something he doesn’t want to do?” Moriarty shrugs. “Why does anyone? Because of what will happen if they don’t.” 

“There’s nothing you can threaten me with,” Sherlock spits. “Tell all my secrets, I don’t care.” 

“Oh, but,” Moriarty says, that same burning anger still simmering below his casual smile, “it’s not your secrets I’m talking about.” 

Sherlock stares at him, suddenly cold. 

“You have friends, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty says softly. “Always a mistake.” 

“I don’t—” he starts helplessly, but it’s no good. 

“Professor Lestrade,” Moriarty says. “He said he’d keep an eye on me, didn’t he? He lets you use his lab. He _likes_ you.” 

Sherlock swallows. It’s true that his customary indifference and careless contempt towards his teachers has been somewhat supplanted by a grudging gratitude, maybe even fondness, for the biology teacher. He’s not used to professors being nice to him. After all, he’s not very nice to them. 

“He’ll be very sad to learn his wife’s been sleeping with the gym teacher,” Moriarty says, crossing his arms smugly. 

Sherlock frowns. This is a true fact, he’s known for months, but the thought of Lestrade finding out is unexpectedly unpleasant. When did he start caring about things like that? 

“He already suspects,” Sherlock says hesitantly. “He’s been distracted recently, tired. And it’s the truth. He—he _should_ know.” 

Moriarty smiles, unsurprised. “Cold, Sherlock. Lestrade’s happiness not important enough to you? All right. What about Mrs. Hudson? Always there with a cup of tea, a kind word…” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “There’s nothing—”

“Oh, Sherlock, of course there is. I don’t suppose the headmaster will take kindly to learning she has two convictions for possession of marijuana. Or about her prior…job history.” 

Sherlock is well aware that Mrs. Hudson used to work in a very dodgy sort of club—her ankles and her posture show as much—but hearing Moriarty allude to it chills his blood. “It was a long time ago, all of it,” he protests, an edge of desperation sneaking into his voice. “It doesn’t matter now.” 

“Doesn’t it?” Moriarty asks, smile widening. “I think you’ll find it does.”

Sherlock says nothing, torn. He _won’t_ confess to something he didn’t do, he won’t let Moriarty get away with this—he’ll find some evidence, some proof that he’s behind it— 

“John Watson,” Moriarty says, the name vicious and bitter in his mouth, and Sherlock suddenly can’t breathe. 

“There’s nothing,” he forces himself to say. “John _hasn’t done anything_.” 

His voice is wild and desperate because he knows it’s true, because John is clean and innocent and good, and there is so much hatred in Moriarty’s eyes, hatred and _jealousy_ , and Sherlock will not let him drag John down with him. 

“John cheated on his exams,” Moriarty says steadily. “He’ll be rejected from every university he applied to when they find out. There go his plans to be a doctor— _poof_.” He closes his spider-like hand on nothing, on empty air. 

“You are _lying_ ,” Sherlock spits. 

“Of course.” Moriarty shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t prove it, though.” 

Sherlock’s head spins. “No,” he says, “no, no, no.” 

“Then confess.” 

Sherlock feels the inevitability of it swell up inside him, a black wave looming over him, forcing him under. He has no choice. 

He turns to go. 

“On the other hand,” Moriarty says, his voice sly and canny, “is he really worth it?” 

Sherlock turns, very slowly, back around. 

“What did you say?” he asks quietly, feeling suddenly, unprecedentedly _dangerous_. 

Moriarty holds up his hands, protesting his innocence. “Just making an observation, that’s all. I just—oh, Sherlock, I just wonder—how serious is he about you, really?” 

Sherlock’s heart stops. 

“I mean, you know,” Moriarty says, inspecting his fingernails, “it just, gosh, it took a long time for him to admit what you two were doing. I mean, all those broom cupboards weren’t your idea, were they? He could barely make himself stand next to you in public—” 

“It’s different now,” Sherlock snaps, his heart jerking into gear again, beating double time. 

“Is it?” 

Moriarty’s expression is open, innocent, vaguely surprised. Underneath, Sherlock knows, he is as deadly and deliberate as a snake about to bite. 

“Yes,” Sherlock protests quickly, too quickly. The memory of John stepping rapidly away from him in the headmaster’s office springs into his mind. The panic in John’s face when he thought the headmaster was realizing the true nature of their relationship. 

He can see the flash of victory in Moriarty’s eyes. 

“One has to wonder what he sees in you,” the pasty boy continues, the viciousness stronger, more obvious, in his lilting voice. “I mean, he isn’t gay. What exactly is he doing with you, I wonder?” 

Sherlock shakes his head, curls flying. “Shut up.” 

“No, no, I just—I’m just observing, Sherlock, just—I mean, he is the son of an alcoholic. He’s a _caretaker_ , it’s what he does. And you, well, you need taking care of, don’t you?” Moriarty shrugs. “What is it, then, habit? He wants to be a doctor, wants to fix broken people—is John Watson trying to fix you, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock snarls and surges forward, pressing Moriarty up against the heating unit. He can’t tell if the deafening whirring noise is in his head or not. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he hisses. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock,” Moriarty says, licking his lips, looking like a cornered animal, wiry and tight and trapped—and all the more dangerous for it. “I’m just looking out for you. I _want_ you to confess, don’t I? By all means, believe in John Watson. Protect John Watson. All the better for me.” 

And the things is, Sherlock _knows_. He knows Moriarty is being manipulative and malicious and twisting his head around. He knows he’s playing into Moriarty’s hands. But his words are snaking into Sherlock’s brain, burrowing deeper and deeper, and—what if Moriarty is right? 

“You won’t hurt John Watson,” Sherlock vows, even as he wonders, suddenly, if John would do the same for him. If he really knows John at all. “I won’t let you.” 

“Then go back to the headmaster, and tell him you did it,” Moriarty says calmly, his face still inches from Sherlock’s, his shoulders still tight in Sherlock’s bruising grasp. 

Sherlock feels the blackness creep up inside him, feels it pull him down, feels it drowning him. Everything grows distant, and still, and sharp as cut glass. Moriarty starts grinning, victorious, and Sherlock doesn’t care. 

So he releases the boy’s shoulders, and turns around in silence, and goes and does what Moriarty wants.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to everyone who has read and left kudos and comments on this fic. This is the end! I've enjoyed it and I hope you have too.

Two months pass. Two months, and not a sign of Sherlock. 

John texts him every single morning, though after the first week with no response he assumes Mycroft has confiscated Sherlock’s phone. He keeps texting anyway. 

He assumes Mycroft is to blame for all of this, in fact—everything that isn’t Jim Moriarty’s fault. Yes, Sherlock confessed, but of course that was a lie. John doesn’t know what Moriarty threatened him with to make him do it, but he doesn’t for one moment believe Sherlock was actually responsible, unlike, apparently, his elder brother. Because why else would Mycroft fail to pull strings and keep Sherlock in school, or at least in London? Why else would he ship him off to some undisclosed location—probably the French boarding school he’d once declared would be Sherlock’s next stop if he got kicked out of Chesterton—and forbid him all communication with his friends back home? 

Mycroft has got a hell of a lot to answer to. 

So John texts Sherlock every morning, and every afternoon, after school, he walks to the Holmes’ house and knocks on the door. No one ever answers. 

At first John thinks Mycroft is avoiding him. But after a couple days he notices the telltale signs of an empty house: curtains that never change position, the same single light turning on at precisely the same time each day, the slow buildup of dead leaves and dirt on the front walk as winter melts into spring. Wherever Mycroft is, it isn’t here. 

John doesn’t stop knocking. 

He goes online and looks at the websites of fancy French boarding schools. For once, he is thankful that he continued with his language studies. He calls them all, asking if they have a student there named Sherlock Holmes, but none of them say yes. John wonders if Mycroft told them not to. The thought makes him burningly furious.

School is miserable, of course. There’s a gnawing emptiness inside his stomach all the time, now, and only Molly’s quiet, steady presence stops him going mad. And only the pressure of her hand on his arm, time and again, stops him punching Jim Moriarty right in the face. He wants to barge into the headmaster’s office and shout about how unfair it is, about how Moriarty is to blame, the evil git, but something Molly says stops him. 

“Something happened to make Sherlock confess, even though he didn’t do it,” she says. “I’d bet anything he was protecting someone, John, and I’d bet anything it was you. Don’t undo what he did. Don’t play into Moriarty’s hands. Trust Sherlock.” 

So he does. 

And time marches inexorably forward, and John feels that he is standing still, trapped in that moment when he went back to the headmaster’s office and Sherlock was already gone. Or else in the moment not long before that, when John’s courage failed him and he left Sherlock alone with the headmaster. That was the last time he saw his boyfriend, and the memory fills him with undiluted shame. 

He gets into university in London, and he doesn’t even care. Sherlock’s not in London anymore, so what does it matter? 

John texts Sherlock, and knocks on Mycroft’s door, and nobody ever answers. And still John doesn’t stop.

 

 

 

And then, one dismal, wet afternoon, the lights are on in the Holmes house.

John strides up the walk, his heart suddenly racing. He pounds on the door with unnecessary force, expecting to be ignored, but it’s opened immediately. Mycroft’s eyes widen with surprise. 

“John,” he says, in a not altogether friendly tone. 

He looks paler and thinner than before, his usually impeccable suit rumpled, his tie absent and his shirt open at the collar. John, viciously, is glad he looks a mess. 

“I want to know where Sherlock is,” John states belligerently. 

Mycroft blinks. His expression grows hostile. “If Sherlock has seen fit to withhold that information from you, Mr. Watson, then I am going to respect his wishes.” 

“If—” John opens and shuts his mouth, his brain failing to make sense of Mycroft’s words. “How the hell was he supposed to tell me when you’ve taken away his phone?” 

Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot up. “Taken his phone? I can assure you, I have done no such thing. If Sherlock has not responded to your calls, Mr. Watson, it is simply because he is ignoring them.” 

John feels as though he’s been hit by a bus. “But,” he manages after a moment, “but— _why_?” 

“Well,” Mycroft says superciliously, “sometimes when people break things off, they don’t wish to speak to each other again.” 

“Break things off?” John’s mind is a whir of panic and confusion. “What are you talking about?” 

“I am talking about when you broke things off with my brother, Mr. Watson.” 

Mycroft’s tone is cool and steady and certain. John is so taken aback that he forgets, for a moment, to be angry. 

“I didn’t break things off with Sherlock,” he says, frowning. “Why would you think that?” 

Mycroft’s haughty mask begins to slip, ever so slightly. “Because Sherlock told me you did,” he replies slowly. “Before all the business with the toxic gas. And before the incident of the broken beakers. Before—everything. You broke up with him.” 

John shakes his head, feeling as though he’s underwater, light spiraling dizzily around him as he tries to ascertain which way is up. “I didn’t,” he says. “I didn’t. He just disappeared. I don’t know where he is, and I haven’t heard from him in two months.” 

Mycroft stares at John for a very long moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is heavy with defeat. “I think you’d better come inside.” 

So after two months of waiting, John steps through the door.

 

 

 

He follows Mycroft into the sitting room, past a heap of suitcases and piles of unopened junk mail. The house has a neglected air, dust on the shelves and open takeaway cartons on the otherwise barren countertops. 

“Please excuse the mess,” Mycroft says. “I just returned from abroad on some rather urgent business. I haven’t been home since the incident with Sherlock.” 

“The same urgent business that stopped you going with him to see the headmaster?” John can’t help but retort. 

Mycroft rubs his temples as he sinks into an armchair. “Is that what Sherlock told you?” John nods. “I didn’t go with him because he asked me not to. A mistake, I am beginning to see.” 

John realizes with a sinking feeling that perhaps he has been angry with the wrong person. 

“How did you know I was returning to London today?” Mycroft asks curiously. 

“I didn’t,” John replies. He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve been stopping by every day after school. Waiting till you came home, so I could ask you about Sherlock.” 

Mycroft sighs deeply. “I think I have made a rather colossal miscalculation,” he muses. “Not a common occurrence, I assure you, but if it were to happen it is no surprise that my brother is the cause.” He turns to John. “I think you’d better tell me what happened. From your perspective.” 

So John does. He starts with Carl Powers, and then Soo Lin, and finally the day it all fell apart—seeing Sherlock run out of the building clutching the packet of chemicals, talking to him the next morning, pursuing him to the headmaster’s office and then leaving him alone. Hearing about Sherlock’s confession from Mrs. Hudson, running through the halls to try and find him, realizing that Sherlock’s locker had been cleaned out. And then the silence. 

Mycroft says nothing at first. Then he leans forward, a dangerous glint in his eye. “So you are telling me that Jim Moriarty blackmailed Sherlock into saying he was guilty.” 

John nods. “I don’t know for sure, but he’d done it before to Powers and Soo Lin, and I can’t think why else Sherlock would admit to something he didn’t do.” His anger returns suddenly, rushing through him in force. “How could you believe it?” he demands. “How could you think he’d do that?” 

Mycroft looks almost offended. “I didn’t believe it, John, don’t be absurd.” 

“But then why didn’t you stop it?” John bursts out. “Why didn’t you _do_ something?” 

“Because Sherlock asked me not to,” Mycroft says, shutting his eyes. He rubs his fingers against his forehead. “Sherlock said—he told me that he didn’t want to stay at Chesterton anymore anyway, now that you had—well, since you had broken things off, according to him. He looked so miserable, so—defeated. I didn’t want to press the matter. I’d never thought Chesterton an appropriate place for him anyway, so…I let it all unfold. In the future, when Sherlock is applying to university, I can, er, gloss over the details of the expulsion, so it won’t affect his prospects…” Mycroft trails off, looking embarrassed. 

“So you let him get blamed for something he didn’t do,” John summarizes, his voice shaking with anger, “and you shipped him off to some French boarding school—" 

“A French boarding school?” Mycroft looks at him with unfeigned astonishment. “What on earth makes you think that?” 

John freezes. “Sherlock said you’d threatened to send him to one if he got expelled from Chesterton.” 

Mycroft’s cheeks go very faintly pink. “Ah, well,” he mutters, “we all say things, sometimes…” 

“Then where is he?” John bursts out. 

“At a school called Pembroke, thirty minutes outside London.” 

_Thirty minutes outside London._ All this time, for all these horrible, endless weeks, Sherlock has been less than an hour away. 

John gets abruptly to his feet. 

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asks, startled. 

“Going to find Sherlock, of course.” 

“I…” Mycroft licks his lips. “I’m afraid the school requires special permission for non-family members to visit. Certain regulations…” 

He stops. He looks for a long moment at John’s face. Then he shakes his head. 

“I will call them and let them know you’re coming.” 

“Thank you,” John answers, already on his way out. 

“John,” Mycroft calls sharply. 

John stops and turns around. 

“James Moriarty will not go unpunished, I promise you that,” Mycroft says, his voice low and fierce, and his rumpled shirt and hollowed eyes don’t matter a bit, because he’s suddenly the most dangerous man John has ever met.

 

 

 

John catches a bus out to Pembroke. The school is big and made of brick and concrete, situated awkwardly in the middle of a particularly ugly patch of suburban sprawl. Its big football field isn’t the only thing that’s fenced in, and John gets the sense that this is a rather stricter establishment than Chesterton. 

His hands are clammy and his heart has given up any attempt at regular pumping as he walks through the front gate. VISITORS MUST REPORT DIRECTLY TO THE FRONT DESK, a sign insists in five-inch-high letters, and John doesn’t protest. The front door is open, despite the lateness of the hour, and a woman narrows her eyes suspiciously at him as he approaches her desk. 

“Can I help you?” 

“I’m here to visit a student,” John says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. Considering how he feels, that shouldn’t be too difficult. “One of the boarders.” 

“They’re all boarders here,” she responds. She frowns disapprovingly. “You have to get special permission, you know, and you really aren’t supposed to come without scheduling an appointment—” 

“I have permission,” John says quickly. “From Mycroft Holmes. That’s—I want to see Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft is his elder brother.” 

The woman raises an eyebrow skeptically, but she types quickly into her computer. She scans the screen, and her eyes widen. 

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Mr. Watson. I didn’t realize he’d rung. Please, wait just one moment.” She picks up her phone. “Hi, Lakshmi, it’s Carol. Can you find Sherlock Holmes and send him to me? He’s got a visitor.” She turns to John. “He’ll be here soon. You’re welcome to take a seat.” 

So John perches awkwardly in one of the stiff chairs along the wall and experiences the most excruciating ten-minute wait of his life. 

And then—a head of ill-cut black hair, a rumpled school uniform minus the jacket, two dull gray eyes that come alive with shock as they focus on John, and Sherlock Holmes freezes in his tracks. 

John finds he can’t say a word. His heart is back to regular beating, but at three times the usual speed. He stares at his friend, overwhelmed by relief and fear and anger. 

“How did you get here?” Sherlock manages. 

John knows he isn’t looking for a description of John’s bus ride. “I talked to your brother.” 

Sherlock swallows hard. “You saw Mycroft.” 

John nods. 

“And he told you where I was.” 

“And called the school so they would let me see you.” 

Sherlock runs a hand violently through his shaggy hair. 

“Yes,” John replies, his voice weirdly calm. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s eyes dart to the door. John shakes his head. 

“I’m not leaving till we’ve talked.” He glances at the receptionist, who turns away hastily as he meets her curious gaze. “Is there somewhere we can go?” 

Sherlock hesitates, then gives a short nod and wordlessly exits the building. John follows, hurrying to keep up, as Sherlock leads them down a narrow strip of grass between a couple of Soviet-style buildings. The evening is cool, and the dead-end corner where they end up, a locked supply cupboard door the only break in the bunker-like walls, is bleak and chilly between slabs of concrete. 

Sherlock fumbles in his pocket and takes out an undoubtedly contraband cigarette. He lights it and leans against the wall without once looking at John. 

John has the sudden impulse to take the cigarette and trample it beneath his feet, followed by the urge to kiss Sherlock senseless, licking the bitter smoke from his mouth. He takes a deep breath and does neither, folding his arms and looking steadily at Sherlock instead. 

“So,” he says. “Why did you do it, then?” 

_It_ meaning _everything_ , and John thinks distantly that it will be interesting to see which _it_ Sherlock takes him to mean. 

“Moriarty threatened you,” Sherlock says immediately. He’s still not looking at John. “He said he would frame you for cheating on your exams if I didn’t confess. You couldn’t have gone to uni after that. You couldn’t have become a doctor.” 

John isn’t entirely surprised by this information, but the possibility that it might have actually happened hits him harder than he’d expected. He can almost feel his future crumbling around him, almost understand why Sherlock would have obeyed Moriarty without question. Almost.

“Okay,” he says. “I can—yeah, okay, I can see why you would have thought you didn’t have a choice but to do what he said. I mean, I’m a little insulted and—and a lot angry, Sherlock, that you didn’t consult _me_ on the matter, considering it’s my future we’re talking about—” 

“You’d never have let me do it,” Sherlock cuts in immediately. “You’d have said we could find another way, and Moriarty would have ruined you.” 

John inhales deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Okay. Okay. Well, you’re not wrong that I wouldn’t have let you. I mean—but we could have faced him _together—_ ” 

“I couldn’t risk it,” Sherlock says, _still_ not meeting John’s eyes. “I wouldn’t.” 

John rubs his temples. This is all a lot more complicated than he’d decided it was on the bus to Pembroke. He’d been furious, then, about Sherlock making decisions without him, about leaving him hanging for months. But he can see now that Sherlock really did mean to protect him. And it is true that the moment he’d heard about what Moriarty had done—that Sherlock had chosen to suffer on John’s behalf—he’d have marched straight to the headmaster’s office and told him the truth. No doubt, John admits to himself grudgingly, with disastrous results. 

“But,” he says, because there is still a _but_ , a big one. “But, Sherlock—okay, I get it, I get how in your mind there was no other option. Okay. But, look, Sherlock—no, _look_ at me.” 

Reluctantly, Sherlock raises his eyes to John’s. 

“Why did you tell Mycroft I broke up with you?” John asks, swallowing down the butterflies in his stomach (butterflies with, apparently, razor-sharp wings). “Don’t tell me you needed him to believe you really wanted to leave Chesterton. Mycroft never wanted you there in the first place, he’d have let you go without that excuse.” He clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms. “Why did you make it my fault?” 

Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter rapidly, as if John is the sun and too bright to look at. Sherlock holds out for a moment longer and then turns away, and losing his gaze is like losing a limb. 

Suddenly John is struck with the very real possibility that _this might not work out_. He and Sherlock might stand here, exchanging explanations that don’t tell the whole story until their words peter out into silence, and Sherlock will finish his cigarette, and John still won’t understand, and he will go back to London and they will be like two planes passing each other in the night sky, Point A to Point B and Point B to Point A and the space between them will only grow. 

Sherlock still isn’t talking and John tries with sudden desperation to think of why this might actually be his fault. 

“Is this about what happened in the headmaster’s office?” he asks in a rush. The moment he stepped away from Sherlock under the suspicious glare of the headmaster has been haunting him, after all. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.” 

Sherlock is silent. He pulls on his cigarette and then exhales, a thin stream of darkness curling from his lips. 

“Why were you with me?” he asks finally. 

“Because I didn’t want you to have to face him alone,” John responds, frowning. “And because Mycroft—well, because you _said_ Mycroft was busy with some crisis and couldn’t be there—” 

“No,” Sherlock says shortly. “Why were you with me at all?” 

After a confused moment, John understands. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he exhales, because the past tense is like a punch in the gut and because how is he supposed to explain why he wants Sherlock with a burning urgency that won’t abate, not even after two months and not a word exchanged between them? 

“You have never been attracted to men before,” Sherlock states. “Why am I the exception?” 

John rubs his hands over his face. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But—” 

“Because, you see,” Sherlock says, his tone growing brittle and unsettlingly clinical, “there are certain learned patterns of behavior often observed in the children of alcoholics—” 

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock,” John repeats. 

“—and I know I am not exactly _normal_ ,” Sherlock continues, riding over him, his voice becoming even more cold and distant, “I know I have periods of depression, which clearly bring out the caretaker impulse in you, and…” He stumbles over his words for the first time, pulling viciously at his cigarette in compensation, “I know I am _broken_ , John, there’s no point pretending otherwise, I don’t work right, and you want to be a doctor, and possibly you wish to _fix_ me.” 

John opens his mouth to protest when suddenly he is overwhelmed by the fear the Sherlock is right. 

He _does_ want to help Sherlock. He does want to take care of him when he isn’t doing well. He’s not an idiot, he’s noticed the parallels with how he behaves towards his dad, and what if that’s what this is? 

It’s not like the possibility has never occurred to him before. 

“You’re not broken, Sherlock,” John protests, but it’s a weak answer. 

Sherlock shoves his cigarette against the wall in a sudden convulsive gesture, snuffing it out. There’s a long pause, and then he’s rooting through his pockets again, finding another cigarette and lighting it with hands that, John notices now, are almost imperceptibly trembling. 

“Or perhaps dating me was an act of defiance,” Sherlock says, and he’s not quite managing to keep his voice cold and steady anymore. “Perhaps I excite you because your father doesn’t approve. Maybe you are finally rebelling, as you have so long wished to do, and the attraction you feel towards me is really just the lure of novelty and of danger.” 

John swallows back a rush of panic thick and hot as bile. He has worried about that, too. Right from the start, really. That’s why he liked Sherlock in the first place: because he was different, because he was a distraction. 

And he remembers all too well the heady mix of anger and defiance that sent him over to Sherlock’s house the first time, the day after Christmas. 

“Sherlock—” 

“Or maybe your sister was right, maybe I _am_ just an experiment—” 

“ _Sherlock_ —” 

“Or just a phase—” 

“I, I don’t—just—” 

“And I just want to know,” Sherlock says rapidly, “is it true? Is that—am I—am I a _project_ , to you? Or a distraction, or a rebellion, or a bit of danger—” 

“I don’t know!” John bursts out. 

Silence falls. John’s blood is pounding in his ears, rushing like a waterfall, and Sherlock looks as if he’s been _struck_ , and the world spins dizzily around them, threatening to tip them over the edge. 

“Look, I…” John takes a shuddery breath. “I don’t _know._ It’s not like I haven’t worried about that, Sherlock, not like it’s never occurred to me—and I keep thinking it’s fine, that I’m past all that, but then I get scared again and have these, these horrible doubts—” 

“Then what’s the point?” Sherlock asks in an anguished near-whisper. He turns his head away and speaks rapidly to the ground. “If that’s all I am to you, or might be—why even try, John, why even bother anymore, if it might all be true—” 

“Because _I don’t want it to be true_ ,” John confesses as his whole body crumples, just gives up, collapsing onto the sparse grass, the hard dirt below. He buries his face in his hands. “Because all I want, Sherlock, _all I want_ , is for this—for you and me—for it to be _real_. Just—I want it so badly, sometimes I can’t breathe.” 

Sherlock hits the ground opposite him, back against the concrete wall, looking as if he’s been struck by lightning. 

“You—you _want this_?” 

John looks at him, willing desperately for him to see how much John means it. “With all my heart, Sherlock. Every fucking minute of every fucking day.” 

Sherlock blinks slowly, as if stunned. “You mean to say—if you were given a choice—if you had the chance to let this all just be—a, a phase, or a mistake, or some temporary aberration—you wouldn’t take it?” 

John stares at him. 

“You wouldn’t just walk away?” Sherlock asks, barely audible. 

“Oh my god,” John breathes, realizing that Sherlock is entirely serious. “No. No, god no, Sherlock, I—I know I mess up, I get scared, I think everything’s fine and then it just hits me again, all bullshit, but—but I don’t want the bullshit to _win_. I wantyou. I mean I—I _want_ to wantyou.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock says dumbly. 

“And I don’t know if that’s enough,” John admits, worry eating at his stomach. “I mean, for you. I mean, if I want it enough—maybe—maybe it _will_ be real. Maybe that’s more important than anything else, my wanting it…”

He trails off. Sherlock is looking away again. John doesn’t know if he’s losing him—if it really isn’t enough, if Sherlock needs him to be ready and brave and certain all the time—or if Sherlock just can’t believe that John would really want to be with him. That he isn’t waiting and hoping for the moment when he can just walk away.

So John clenches his fist and screws up his courage and says, “Fuck it, Sherlock, fuck all the rest. All I want…” he takes a deep breath, “is to be with you because I love you.” 

Sherlock freezes. He stares at John, immobile. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” John says quickly. “You don’t have to say it back, or feel the same way—” 

“Of course I love you,” Sherlock interrupts, as if John is the biggest idiot in the world. “I’ve loved you since—” He hesitates, the ghost of a rueful smile flitting across his face. “Since you punched a boy in the face for me.” 

It’s John’s turn to feel staggered. And then, through all the terror and anxiety and guilt comes a rush of pure _joy_ , like a train barreling towards him, bright and fast and unstoppable. 

“Do you want to know something?” John asks, fighting to keep the perhaps inappropriate grin off his face. 

Sherlock nods, looking apprehensive. 

“All those doubts, and fears, and everything—do you know when they’re weakest, when they’re the least threatening?” John inches his foot ever so slightly towards Sherlock’s. “When I’m with you. The closer I am to you, the more convinced I am that this is _real_.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen. 

“Will you come back to Chesterton?” John asks softly. 

After a moment of tense anticipation, Sherlock nods. 

Now John does start to smile. “And once all this business with Moriarty is sorted out—or anytime, really—if you’re thinking about these kinds of things, will you _tell_ me, instead of running away?” 

“As long as you tell me, too, if you are,” Sherlock says, his voice a little hoarse. 

“Fair enough,” John concedes. “And will you—” He hesitates, suddenly nervous. “Will you—” 

Sherlock’s face creases in worry. 

“Will you kiss me?” 

A split second, and then Sherlock is leaning forward, closing the space between them, his body a shock of warmth and that familiar _smell_ , cigarette ash and iodine and shampoo and _Sherlock_ , fills John’s nostrils again after so long, and Sherlock kisses him with simultaneous urgency and sweetness and it is the single best thing John has ever felt. And everything else, for that prolonged, perfect moment, disappears. 

“When you’re kissing me,” John breathes, his mouth still mere centimeters from Sherlock’s, “I _know_ this is real.” 

A smile breaks across Sherlock’s face, and really, there’s nothing for it, after that, than to keep on kissing.

 

 

 

Sherlock comes back to school. 

It’s not that simple, of course. Mycroft has to pull a lot of strings first. So many strings, in fact, that John is both ashamed for ever doubting his devotion to Sherlock, and increasingly terrified of getting on Mycroft’s bad side. He’s got connections, it becomes apparent, within not only the police and government but with rather more shady characters as well—or at least, John surmises that he does, because Sherlock tells him that Mycroft is tracing the chemicals Moriarty used to release noxious fumes in Chesterton through some very insalubrious channels. Jim Moriarty, it turns out, is into things much worse than a bit of teenage bullying. 

He’s slippery, though, and Mycroft gets stuck for a few days, trying to find out precisely when and where Moriarty actually received the chemicals; John gathers that the elder Holmes has no doubt that his sources are accurate, but that he wants concrete proof so he can make a case against Moriarty in an entirely legal, above-ground way. (John doesn’t like to think too much about the implications of this—namely, that Mycroft could dispose of Moriarty in ways _not_ entirely legal.) 

The final link, to everyone’s surprise, is provided by Molly.

She stops by the Holmes house one Saturday to say hi to Sherlock, and finds the two brothers and John attempting, for the thousandth time, to map out Moriarty’s movements over the week before the chemicals were released. 

“I saw him in a parked car three blocks from school the afternoon before,” she offers, and they all turn to stare at her, eyes wide. 

That’s the information Mycroft needs, apparently, because on Monday he walks into the headmaster’s office, looking grim and determined. John, who is perhaps not quite as focused on his classes as he might be, calculates that the elder Holmes brother remains there for nearly two hours. When he emerges—John just happens to have volunteered to make copies for his professor at that moment—he looks very grave; John’s stomach flips, but then Mycroft notices him, catches his eye, and _winks_. 

John feels like dancing. 

The headmaster comes out a moment later, looking shaken and rather as if he has aged several years in the past two hours. He says something quietly to Mrs. Hudson—John catches Moriarty’s name—and the woman nods. When the headmaster goes, her eyes fill up with happy tears, and she beams at Mycroft before reaching for her phone. 

“You’d better go, now, John,” Mycroft murmurs. “Don’t you have class, anyway?” 

John grins. “Must have forgotten. Look, Mycroft—” He takes a breath. “Thanks.” 

Mycroft surveys him for a moment, then shakes his head. “Thank _you_ , John.” 

He strides quickly out of the building, and after a stunned moment, John returns to class. 

And the next day, Jim Moriarty is gone. And Sherlock is back.

 

 

 

The sun is bright and far too hot on graduation day. John is sweating underneath his long black robe, but he feels as exhilarated as Molly looks. He’s _made_ it. Against all odds, it seems, he’s made it through. 

When he gets his diploma, he looks out at the audience, eyes hovering between his dad and sister and Sherlock, who’s slouching in the back row, pretending to be bored. All at once, all three of them give him a smile. 

Afterwards, he chats with Molly and Mike and Bill while Sherlock flits around, apparently conducting some sort of informal survey on the kind of shoes everyone is wearing, heaven knows why. His dad’s talking to Mike’s father, and Harry has disappeared somewhere. 

“I’m going to miss school,” Molly says wistfully. 

Mike laughs. “Not me.” 

“Anyway, it’s off to uni soon enough,” Bill sighs. “You’re staying in London, aren’t you, Hooper?” 

Molly looks pleasantly surprised that Bill knows this. “Yes, John and I are going to the same school.” 

“I’m staying in London, too,” Bill says casually. “Working for my uncle—gap year. We could, you know, hang out sometime.” 

Molly flushes scarlet and nods shyly. John bits his lip, holding back a grin. 

“I dunno if I’d miss Chesterton, exactly,” he says, “but I’m coming back next week anyway. Lestrade’s offered me a job—apparently the bio lab needs cleaning and organizing.” 

“Do you know the kind of stuff that’s in the back cupboards?” Mike laughs. “Specimens in jars from, like, the sixties. And bones, from who knows what.” 

John shrugs. “I’m saving up. Hoping to get a flat as soon as I can.” 

“Better you than me, mate,” Bill grins. “Just wear gloves, yeah?” 

John smiles, then excuses himself rapidly to chase after Sherlock, who is now crouching on the ground, inspecting the heel of a very baffled mother. But before he can make it there, he spots somebody else, watching him from an empty corner. He changes direction. 

“Hey,” Harry says as he approaches. 

“Hey.” 

She’s got a cup of punch in her hand and John wonders, suddenly, if it’s the kind for the kids or the adults. 

“Congratulations,” she says, staring at her knees. 

“Thanks.” 

There’s a long silence. 

“So,” she says, “when are you moving out?” 

“Not yet,” John replies quickly. “But…well, soon.” 

“As soon as possible.” 

“Yes.” He hesitates, looking at his sister. She’s got shadows under her eyes. “Unless—unless you think—unless you want me to—” 

“No,” she says immediately. “No. You should move out, John, it’s—that’s not your job.” 

He bites his lip. It’s been a long time since he knew what to say to his sister. 

“Well, once I do have my own place—if you ever need somewhere to stay—” 

“I’m not telling Dad,” Harry says sharply. 

_About Clara_ , John knows she means. Or about herself, really. He remembers how terrible it was to hide, but then again it was terrible when his dad found out, and Harry has two more years in that house and John can’t know what’s best for her. 

“For any reason,” he says firmly. “If you need somewhere to stay for any reason, you’ll have it.” 

Harry swallows. She looks away. “Thanks,” she says quietly. 

John nods. There’s a long, awkward silence, and eventually John moves to go. 

“Are you—” Harry stops. “Are you glad he’s back?” 

She looks across the room at Sherlock, who is, thankfully, standing on two feet again. 

“Yes,” John answers. Even now he can’t stop a smile from rising to his face. “God, yes.” 

“Then I’m glad, too.” 

John turns to her, surprised, but she merely downs her punch and hurries away. 

“ _There_ you are.” Sherlock’s voice is impatient. “I’m collecting data on heel heights, I could use your help.” 

John snorts. “This is my _graduation_ , Sherlock, I’m not conducting experiments now.” 

Sherlock looks put out, but for once he doesn’t argue. 

“I suppose we’ll have plenty of time for experiments this summer, as you’ll have unlimited access to the bio lab,” he muses. 

“I’m supposed be _cleaning_ it, Sherlock, not making more of a mess.” 

Sherlock waves his hand. “Semantics.” 

John laughs and steps very close to his boyfriend. “Do you even know what semantics are?” he murmurs. “Because you’re using the word wrong.” 

“I am not,” Sherlock retorts, offended. 

“The difference between cleaning and making a mess is not semantics, Sherlock, they mean _the opposite things_.” 

“I—” Sherlock falls silent, and John follows his eyes to where they’ve just landed. 

From across the punch table, his dad is watching them, forehead creased and eyebrows drawn in. He’d given John a crushing hug, earlier, his eyes wet with tears John knew he’d never admit to, and told him he was proud. Now his face is stormy with disapproval. 

John’s eyes flick to Sherlock’s. The boy looks uncertain, anxious. John feels his stomach turn over. His dad is still glaring.

Sherlock steps back, retreating to a less intimate distance. John’s instinct is to let him, to wipe the anger from his dad’s face, to dissolve the tension. He sets his instinct calmly aside, and takes Sherlock by the hand. 

His dad turns away abruptly. John feels a twinge of regret, but then he turns away, too, so only Sherlock is in his line of vision. Sherlock and, scattered throughout the room, all his friends. 

“I might be able to convince Lestrade to let us conduct a couple experiments,” John concedes. 

Sherlock’s face lights up, slowly, like a string of fairy lights blinking on one at a time. When he kisses John, he’s positively radiant. 

“Just a couple?” 

“Well, from time to time, then.”

"Once a week." 

“Don’t push your luck.” 

“I _always_ push my luck,” Sherlock says, grinning like the mad genius he is. “How lucky would we have to be to sneak away for a bit right now, do you think?” 

“Hm. Pretty lucky, I’d say.” 

“Good think I’m _very_ lucky,” Sherlock breathes, and John laughs and laughs. 

“You arrogant little git,” he says fondly. 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock replies, and John allows himself to be led away from the crowd—thinking, all the while, that _he_ is the one who’s lucky.


End file.
